


In the Eye of the Beholder

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Blindfolds, Cunnilingus, Enthusiastic Consent, Explicit Consent, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Intercrural Sex, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mildly Dubious Consent, Modern Royalty, Mutual Pining, Shameless Smut, Since it involves kidnapping, Smut, The Dubious Consent is in terms of transportation, but after that we're in the clear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2019-07-25 20:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16205516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: “My charge is an upper-class Omega. She’s unmarried and needs heat partners to give her experiences with knots.” The heavy sigh meant that Finstock was definitely not the first person that Peter had taken. “The Alphas before you were either inadequate or went into a rut where they lost sight of themselves, did everything they could to give her a claiming mark which isnotpart of the deal. She’s saving her mating bite for marriage.”It made sense. It was traditional to take the mating mark on a wedding night, though that tradition was waning.“So…” Finstock breathed, the anxiety that gripped his chest falling away like sand. “You think I’m gonna do a better job?”Peter clicked his tongue and Finstock heard the smile in his voice.“As a matter of fact, I do.”





	1. The Right Kind of Alpha

Wiping down all the glasses before the start of the next bartender’s shift was just common courtesy. 

Finstock rested his hip on the bar, the twist of his wrist and the drag of cloth against glass pure muscle memory. The clear night sky reflected back in the glass. He reached for another glass when a man sighed his way into the bar, his elbows banging painfully against the long stretch of mahogany. 

“Is it just me, or are halfway decent Alphas just impossible to find?” 

Finstock snorted, placing his glass down before making his way to his witching-hour customer. 

“Depends on what you’re looking for and who you’re asking. Rough night?” 

“Ugh,” the man was handsome, just a little younger than Finstock with a smirk that would have most panting on their knees. “Not my roughest, but just irritating enough. Could I have some coffee?”

“Coming right up.” 

Working at the Crossroads Tavern was a good gig. It was in the Beacon Hills trading post and had two train stations located on either side, one for industrial use and the other for public. Two main roads that stretched all across the country ran through it. People from all over would stop in for a drink, a quick nip for the road before hurrying off to wherever they were going. The only familiar faces were merchants and they were usually so drained they weren’t up for conversation. 

Only when the sun went down did traffic ebb into something less hectic. The late shift died down quickly and Finstock usually spent his time focusing on cleaning up and prepping Erica and Isaac to open the next morning. 

Piping hot coffee filled a mug. When he offered cream or sugar, the stranger shook his head. Grabbing his abandoned glass, Finstock went back to cleaning, holding the stranger’s gaze easily. 

“I’m assuming you’ve checked the usual Alpha events and meetups.” 

The man rolled his eyes.

 _“Obviously.”_

Finstock laughed, an uneven snort that made his cheeks prickle with amusement. 

“Yeah, those things always seemed so bullshit to me. Everyone’s all keyed up, half of the game is just getting through the speed-matching rounds. Everyone smells fucking terrified. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t do it for me.” 

The stranger sipped his coffee, his eyes crinkling at the sides. 

“Not particularly.” It was easy to let the conversation slip away, to leave the ball in the stranger’s court, so-to-speak. The lights that were strung along the rail line swung in the wind, a few other employees at other stops leaned against their storefronts, taking time for a breather after the evening rush. Finstock, he just grabbed another glass, leaving them gleaming, his eyes drifting to their stock-list to see if he needed to request materials— “So where do you go?” 

The stranger spoke out of nowhere, sitting up straighter, leaning forward in his seat. His shirt slipped off his shoulder in a way that was too smooth to be unintentional. Finstock placed the cloth on his shoulder. 

“Pardon me?” 

He refilled the man’s coffee, using it as an excuse to avoid the man’s intense gaze. 

“When an Alpha such as yourself wants a companion, how do you go about doing it?” 

The silky-smooth tone in the man’s voice made Finstock recoil internally, though years of customer service kept a smile on his face. 

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask, sir.” 

The man blinked at the _sir._ He extended his hand. 

“How rude of me. I’m Peter.” 

Finstock shook his hand and found that, while it was lightly calloused, the skin was much softer than most of the people who stopped by the Crossroads Tavern. 

“Finstock.” 

“Charmed. What I _meant_ to say is an Alpha as unique as yourself, is there some sort of gathering that you find acceptable?” 

Peter softened his tone, leaning back a little. Alphas typically liked a soft, flirty challenge. A hint of skin to allude to something fun down the line. In terms of general Alpha appeal, Peter had performed exceptionally. 

“No.” That was the problem with Finstock. He wasn’t the general Alpha. His smile became brittle around the edges. “I’m surprised you were able to clock me. Most aren’t able to.” 

Peter’s smile widened. 

“I’m not like most people.” 

Finstock couldn’t tell if Peter was flirting or interrogating him. If he was flirting, Finstock couldn’t wrap his head around why a man like Peter would bother, not when he had such a mastery over his face, body, and demeanor. And if Finstock was being questioned… he couldn’t figure out _why._ They’d just met. 

“I’m not comfortable at those kind of events. The other Alphas there always seem,” _hungry,_ “desperate.” Bound by tradition, puffing out their chests. Just thinking about it made him exhausted. “If someone is interested they can talk to me about it. We’ll get a drink, have coffee or something.” 

Peter’s eyes drifted to Finstock’s hands, his shoulders, his chest, before returning to Finstock’s increasingly annoyed gaze. 

“What about a heat partner, do you have one of those?” 

The cloth came down hard on Finstock’s hand and he twisted the fabric harshly, relishing the way Peter’s eyes widened. He wrung the cloth until his knuckles were white. 

“It’s none of your business.” 

All pretenses dropped. Finstock let his anger show, his voice smoothing out into onyx. Peter leaned back, his elbows slipping off the bar, increasing the distance between them. _Good,_ Finstock thought, the uncomfortable knot that had been tightening in his stomach loosening for a moment. 

“Have you ever had an Omega during their heat? I’ve heard it’s the most sublime experience, a hole unlike any other—” 

Sunlight just began to peak out from the horizon and that meant Isaac would be there soon, and Finstock needed this creep to be gone before the Omega got there. 

“Listen,” Finstock grabbed Peter by his shirt with an absurdly low-cut neck, winding the material in his hands until he could pull Peter close. The man stumbled, his hands whipping out to catch himself on the bar, his stool clattering to the ground, “I’m not your fucking mother. I’m not your fucking father. I’m not about to teach you manners and basic respect. That’s not my job. But it _is_ my job to keep the Crossroads a friendly and _inclusive_ environment.” Peter’s eyes were wide, his mouth slack and Finstock pulled his lips back, his smile all teeth and no warmth. “Get the fuck out of my bar.” 

He shoved him back and thankfully Peter said nothing as he rapidly fled from the bar. Twenty minutes later, an adorably sleepy Isaac came in through the staff entrance. 

“‘Morning, Finstock.” Finstock had a cup of hot tea ready and Isaac took it with the same crooked, grateful smile. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it.” Erica was her usual fifteen seconds early, out of sorts but ready to deal with the breakfast rush. Finstock yawned, clapping them both on the shoulders. “I’ll see you two later. Also, there was some creep in here about an hour ago named Peter.” Finstock gave a brief physical description. “You see him, throw him out.” 

Erica and Isaac saluted on cue. 

 

“Aye, aye, sir.” 

Menaces, the lot of them. 

::::

Finstock forgot about Peter when the creep didn’t return to the Crossroads for a week. There was no reason to keep a man like that in his memory. 

Life moved on and summer faded into a dreamy autumn. Summer ales became ciders. Finstock broke out the scarf that Erica had made for his birthday when she first started working at the bar. It was the start of the autumn harvest, Finstock remembered because of the banners that hung down from the train station. It also meant that they had a few days off to let the farms do their thing. 

He lived on the outskirts of Beacon Hills, a mile down from the train station that was a nice walk that let him wake up in the morning. 

When he didn’t have to be anywhere, Finstock typically stayed home. He heated up apple cider and poured it into a mug, letting the steam warm his face as he shuffled out onto his slanted porch. He took a long sip and basked in the silence of the morning. 

He placed his mug on a chair and walked barefoot to the wood pile. 

With the cool breeze gently shifting through his sweater, Finstock took a deep breath of fresh air and thought, _fuck, it’s a beautiful morning._ His toes had made it to the beaten dirt path that led down the hill to the tarps that draped over dried out logs. Perfect for a cozy fire, a good book, and maybe the soft crackle of the punk station on the radio—

Two strong hands pressed a damp cloth against his mouth and nose, a _heavy_ body on his back. The momentum sent Finstock falling roughly on the ground, his knees hitting pebbles and gravel hard enough to make pinpricks of white _burst_ beneath his eyelids. 

He grunted and shoved backwards as hard as he could. He heard the other person grunt, but their grip didn’t let up, even as Finstock slammed them into the ground again and again. All that movement took effort, and all that effort made him breathe deep until his limbs were heavy, his skin feeling numb. He felt the cloth slip off his face right as he fell unconscious. 

::::

Finstock came to laying on his side. A thick leather strap was tightly bound around his head so that he couldn’t open his eyes. When his fingers scrambled along the back of the strap, he felt a metal _lock_ looped between the buckle. There was a dull hum around him, a deceptive lull of machinery that was _similar_ to a train but more compact. Finstock had only been in a car a handful of times, but he recognized the sensations. He jolted awake, his hands and legs free as he scrambled for a door, a handle, _anything_ — only to find nothing. Just smooth metal with no hint of a latch. 

Cars were used for high priority deliveries or for leisure by those who could afford such a thing. Finstock swallowed, his throat clicking loud as he pressed his fingers against the side. Not even a fucking _window_ for him to break. 

There was a knocking sound coming from his right before the _ker-chunk_ of a latch coming undone. A slide of a divider on a track, and then a voice called back. 

“Okay, so I know that despite me telling you not to worry or panic, instincts are going to keep you from trusting me.” Finstock lunged toward the divide, only to immediately smash his nose on plastic. “See, don’t do that.” 

The voice was familiar, it’s tone measured carefully to be inoffensively charming. The memory from months before came rushing back and Finstock growled, pressing his palms against the divider. 

_“Peter.”_

“Correct.” 

Finstock sat back, breathing deep, hating how loud his heart sounded. He needed to focus, to think about what the _fuck_ was going on. It was a private car, that much was clear. And if Peter had access to a private car, chloroform, and the knowledge of where Finstock lived…

None of it looked good. 

He had no idea how long he was out. If he strained his ears he couldn’t hear anything except dirt under tires. He swallowed, wrapping his arms around his stomach to keep them from shaking too noticeably. His tongue felt swollen in his mouth and his nose throbbed in time to his heartbeat. He waited until his breaths stopped hitching on every inhale before he spoke. 

“What do you want?” 

It definitely wasn’t money. Peter might be an asshole, possibly a psychopath, but he wasn’t that dumb to think that Finstock was rolling in cash. His body wasn’t… well, it wasn’t exactly massively appealing. Skills, he could mix a nice drink, prepare a basic meal… nothing to write home about. Nothing to _kidnap_ someone over. 

_Then again, there’s no talking sanity into the insane._

“I’d like your help with an Omega. You’ll be reimbursed for your time.” 

They went over a bump and the terrain changed, less grit, something smoother. Cold sweat broke out over Finstock’s skin. 

“What kind of,” he could barely speak, his body numb, “help?” Finstock kept breathing in hot bursts and he needed air, he needed… he needed to wake up from the nightmare he was living. He recalled the vile words Peter had spewed from his mouth all those months ago. “I’m not gonna,” Finstock clenched his fists. “I’m not going to fucking hurt anyone. Do you hear me,” he slammed his hands against the divider, ignoring the sting in his palms, _“Peter,_ I don’t give a fuck what you do to me. I’m not hurting _anyone.”_

Finstock’s reality narrowed, from his morning, his work, his _life,_ to this moment. Every breath, every heartbeat was taking him toward something unknown, and no matter what… Finstock knew things about himself that would not change. 

If he died fighting, then at least he tried. 

Peter chuckled. 

“See, that’s why you made the cut.” Peter came to a stop and his voice lost its smooth quality, gaining a… depth that Finstock hadn’t heard. “My charge is an upper-class Omega. She’s unmarried and needs heat partners to give her experiences with knots.” The heavy sigh meant that Finstock was definitely not the first person that Peter had taken. “The Alphas before you were either inadequate or went into a rut where they lost sight of themselves, did everything they could to give her a claiming mark which is _not_ part of the deal. She’s saving her mating bite for marriage.” 

It made sense. It was traditional to take the mating mark on a wedding night, though that tradition was waning. 

“So…” Finstock breathed, the anxiety that gripped his chest falling away like sand. “You think I’m gonna do a better job?” 

Peter clicked his tongue and Finstock heard the smile in his voice. 

“As a matter of fact, I do.” 

They drove for four hours. Finstock laid down on the floor, stretching out his back and Peter turned up the radio loud enough for Finstock to sing along under his breath. His anxiety condensed into a small weight in the bottom of his stomach. The car slowed to a stop and Peter got out. Finstock sat up just as the left side of the car opened, fresh air washing over him. He shivered and jumped when a lightly calloused hand touched his ankle. 

“We’re here.” 

Peter pulled his hand back and Finstock awkwardly shuffled out of the car, bumping his head on the door. Cicadas buzzed, sunlight chased away the autumn chill. There were a lot of trees, judging by the whisper of leaves, and when he took a deep breath he smelled faint hint of smoke. 

Firm but gentle hands lead him down a cobblestone pathway, Finstock’s feet feeling every groove as he listened to Peter unlock a door, then unlock a _second_ door. The inside had a _very_ nice carpet, smooth, warm wood, and before Finstock could think to reach out his hands and touch something, Peter’s hand was on the small of his back. 

“Just a little further ahead, about twenty feet, and we’ll be going through another door and down a flight of stairs.” 

He heard the crackle of a fire, he smelled candle wax and dried herbs, and then Peter opened the second door. Peter went first, keeping one hand in Finstock’s as he led him down steps. The walls were stone and the air was cold. Every step, the smell of _Omega_ got stronger.

It had been… a long time. _Years,_ but it was a scent that was unforgettable. Unique to each Omega, but that underlying base… that every Alpha understood. Finstock faltered. Peter steadied him.

“You have five more steps. You're almost there.” 

_That’s not why I tripped,_ Finstock knew he didn’t need to clarify. He nodded, his shoulders tense. The stone floor only had a few moments to make Finstock shiver before another door and warmth spilled over his body. 

He stepped up a small step, leaving stone for wood. The smell was _everywhere._ His heartbeat picked up, his skin went from clammy to flush with dizzying speed. He swallowed when he heard Peter closed the door, stepping to the side, out of reach. Finstock waited for Peter to provide more direction but he provided none. 

There was an Omega in the room, but they didn’t speak. Distress, anguish, and pain weren’t tarnishing the scent of _heat._

Anonymous heat partners for the rich were… historical gossip. Sure, back in the days of ladies and lords, maybe a few heat partners were had, but realistically it was probably just a cover-story for Omegas taking suitors that weren’t in the same class bracket. The most Finstock had heard of this kind of situation were in trashy novels that sold for twenty-five cents a pop down at the trading post. Bodice Rippers. Ravenous Alphas and Supple Omegas. All the books always had dogeared pages that marked the sex scenes. 

The reality wasn’t all _throbbing members_ and _pulsing thighs._ The reality was Finstock taking one step forward, only for the ground to change from wood to a soft, mattress-like cushion. Reality was him jerking back until his feet were on wood again. Reality was the sound of fabric whispering, soft footsteps moving off the cushioned surface to the left side, to the wooden border. 

Finstock knew that most Alphas wouldn’t have flinched at the situation, that most Alphas wouldn’t have their shoulders wound so tight that they were trembling. Hell, most Alphas wouldn’t have been knocked out at the crack of dawn with apple-cider still lingering on their tongue. 

“How can I help you relax?”

He laughed, ugly and loud. He was sure she flinched, her voice bright and soothing. _Fuck this is surreal._

“That asshole,” Finstock gestured vaguely to the side were Peter lingered. “He works for you?”

“He does.” 

She sounded calm… even teasing. He could hear her smiling. She smelled… well, the first word that came to mind was divine. But if Finstock took the time to really savor her…

She smelled like air the moments before a storm, the satisfaction of laying in a freshly made bed, and freshly brewed tea. 

“Could you,” Finstock held out his hands, palms facing up, “put your hands out for me?”

Rustling fabric was the only warning Finstock got before _smooth_ skin, skin like _marble,_ slid over his calloused, weathered hands. The touch of her skin made electricity prickle and burst across his spine. He had to focus, and so he slid his fingers down along her wrist and pressed against her pulse lightly. It jumped, he knew it would, and it remained elevated. Finstock got a feel for the rhythm and cleared his throat. 

“Are you being forced into this?” 

“No.”

Her heartbeat didn’t waver. Finstock’s shoulders relaxed marginally. 

“You’ve done this before?”

“Yes. Several times.” 

She moved in his grip, not pulling away but… she was turning. Maybe shooting a look over to Peter. 

“How old are you?”

Her fingers squeezed his arm. 

“Twenty-four.” 

_Jesus._ Finstock could only imagine what the scene looked like, Peter watching, a young Omega soothing the strange oddball Alpha. 

“You swear,” Finstock squeezed her wrists and she _whimpered,_ a fresh rush of scent bowling him over. “You swear you’re not under duress?” 

“I swear.” He let her wrists fall from his grasp. “You’re not like most Alphas.” 

Finstock shrugged, his smile crooked and not entirely friendly.

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me.” 

Smooth hands slid back into his, her fingers weaving between his. She kept her grip loose. 

“Peter,” Finstock heard the other man straighten with an unsubtle clearing of his throat. “I can take it from here.” 

Finstock’s heart thundered in his chest as Peter stepped aside, opening the door with a soft, _“Of course,”_ and then he was gone. 

::::

As soon as the door closed things went from _this is surreal but I can manage_ to _holy shit this is really happening._ Finstock had helped three Omegas through their heats, and the last one had been over ten years ago. They’d been good friends and Finstock was an Alpha they could call on in a pinch. Not ideal but he’d get the job done. 

It had never been like this.

The sound of fabric falling to the ground had him reeling backwards. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Getting undressed.” Her voice had lost its calm edge, and when her skin brushed his it was _hot._ Her grip was firm when she shoved his robe off and pulled at his shirt. “The sooner you knot me, the sooner I can think straight.” 

“That’s,” and Finstock did his best to pull away from her grip without falling over. “That’s not the only way to clear your head.” He captured her hands when she went for his pajama pants. “I mean, _fuck,_ I don’t even know your name.” She froze and Finstock didn’t need to see her to _know_ she was confused. It made his stomach twist harder, his jaw aching from grinding his teeth. “I’m Bobby Finstock.” 

Her breath puffed out in a shaky exhale. 

“Kira.” She shifted closer. “I,” her breath rushed out in a dazed shudder, “I can’t give you my last name.” 

Her distress shifted from sexual arousal to… emotional turmoil, and it tugged at Finstock from the back of his abdomen like an anchor. He rubbed his fingers over her knuckles, in small circles until her trembling lessened. 

“It’s all right.” He risked letting one of her hands go so he could reach for her face. His fingers bumped along a flushed cheek, and he slowly tucked silky hair behind her ear. “You’ll get the same relief if an Alpha makes you come, but it can be through any means. Knots aren’t the only answer.” 

“But,” her fingers brushed against his _embarrassingly_ prominent erection. His hips jerked. “You’ll feel good too.” 

“I’ll feel good regardless. Come on.” 

Finstock couldn’t be a guide the way a typical Alpha would have been. Kira led him to where the floor gave away to soft padding. She pulled him down until he was on his knees, and she was the one who slid into his lap, her arms wrapping around his neck right as her tongue gently slipped past his lips. 

He gripped her hips, his reactions feeling sluggish the more she kept kissing him, the more he kept _drowning_ in the Omega slick he could feel _soaking_ through his pants where she’d started grinding, her breaths coming in shorter and shorter gasps. He pushed forward, biting her lower lip and swallowing the moan that came with it. When he lowered her to the ground, his hands were shaking. His fingers skimmed along what felt like a metal cage around her neck. 

To keep any Alphas from biting. 

“Tell me if you don’t like something.”

“Please,” her muscles jumped under his palms when he lazily stroked her thigh. “Just touch me, I don’t _care_ how.”

He hummed, her pheromones less like a hammer to his skull and more like a hot toddy, a light burn that numbed him. His cock throbbed in time to his heartbeat, but his own arousal seemed removed, an extra detail that wasn’t necessary. He dragged his teeth along the inside of her knee, pausing to press kisses into her thigh. She writhed, her hips lifting off the floor. _I know,_ he growled into her skin. _I know._

He wondered what her skin looked like, was it dark, was it pale, was it flushed, was it splotchy? Freckles, beauty marks? He couldn’t find any imperfection under his tongue, not a single knick or tiny scar. 

She _shrieked_ when he gently ran his tongue along her slit, just to get a taste. He flinched, but before he could move, her fingers were quickly in his hair, tugging him back. 

“Please, please keep going,” and her voice was breathless, each _tug_ making his cock ache. _“Please,_ Bobby—”

He kept one hand on her hip while he teased her with his fingers, his breath, his tongue, his _teeth._

He hadn’t _really_ forgotten how much he _loved_ going down on his partners, but it was another thing to be living in that moment once more. Where it was a team effort, whispers of _“yes, like that,”_ or _“softer— yes—”_ that built into a hedonistic frenzy. It was about pleasing an Omega, about licking, nipping, and sucking her soft flesh until she _shuddered,_ his name never sounding so _holy_ before. 

Bobby, _Bobby, **Bobby—**_

Kira’s thighs jumped under his grip, her hips jerking up. His cock pulsed and he pushed two fingers into her, the glide _seductively_ easy. Her breath hitched and he circled her clit, whimpering when his own orgasm hit him hard. Her fingernails dug into the back of his head for a moment, the pain a welcome anchor, before immediately releasing, her legs falling slack and a _gush_ of slick rushing down Finstock’s chin and wrist. 

He gently scissored his fingers, easing her through the aftershocks, pulling back to press a kiss against her knee. 

The post-orgasm haze lasted about a minute, and then Finstock felt his limbs lose the static-fuzz that came after he’d get a good taste of Omega slick. He felt Kira’s body shiver, the same clarity returning to her. There was a thump against the cushions, and she clenched around his fingers, tight enough to make him groan, before she pushed herself back. 

He let her go, sitting back and letting his tremblings legs splay out in front of him. She panted, a few feet away, and he ignored the sticky mess in his pajama pants in favor of idly sucking on his fingers. 

A choked off whimper had him tearing his fingers from his mouth.

“Everything okay?” His hand shot out, fumbling blindly at the damp cushions. “Kira?”

“Yeah.” Slender fingers found his. “Y-Yeah I’m great.” She exhaled, long. Relieved. “I feel a lot better, actually.” 

Finstock squeezed her hand, his smile probably still a little dopey. 

“It should buy you about a half-hour of relief.” He stretched, his back popping in a few places. “Maybe more, if I’m remembering correctly.” 

Kira’s hands rested on his knees, the contact light and just a reminder that she was still with him. 

“You’ve done this before?” 

“A couple of times. It’s been a while, but I guess it’s kinda like riding a bike.”

Her nails skimmed over the sensitive skin on his knee and he jumped as her voice, all breathlessness stripped away to reveal a wry smile that he _ached_ to see. 

“Which part, heat sex with an Omega or eating pussy?” 

Startled laughter bubbled out of his mouth, his body flushed for a much more pleasant reason. He shook with it, the _shock_ and the _vulgarity_ that he enjoyed in his day-to-day life. Kira’s own giggles twinkled alongside his amusement. He couldn’t help but think that their laughter together sounded… strange, but not unpleasant. 

::::

The room where Kira was set up in was fully equipped with a bathroom, fully stocked pantry, linen closet, and even an elaborate bar. The first thing Finstock did was get them both water, drinking until he was almost uncomfortable with the amount, but dehydration during an Omega’s heat was no joke. Kira joined him, without having to be passed a glass. 

“Usually I just get on a knot and it’s all,” Finstock couldn’t see, but he was sure she was moving her hands in some obscene motion. “Working on that until the fog clears. I thought it was either knots or an ice bath.” 

Finstock’s eyebrows shot up. 

“A fucking _ice bath?”_

Her shoulder moved against him, a _shrug._

“It lowers the body temperature. The shock to the skin helps keep my mind in the present.” Finstock reached for her, to rub his thumb along the skin on her shoulder, making sure she was warm. _Getting warmer,_ he thought. His throat went dry when she leaned into his touch. “We’re going to have to knot. Eventually.” 

Her voice was softer. Not exactly mourning, closer to cautious. It made too many questions weight down Finstock’s tongue, too many hints that… that Kira had been _making do_ when there were plenty of other options that didn’t include ice baths or apathetic partners. 

“We don’t have to do shit if we don’t want to.” He took her wrists again, feeling for her heartbeat as it crept faster, as her scent grew heavier. “Kira, I’ll fucking make you come as many times as you need.” 

He didn’t intend to growl as deeply as he did. Her fingers were hot against his chest, her lips panting against his cheek. 

“What if I want it?” 

He was clear-headed enough to know she didn’t mean _right now._ They didn’t know each other enough to be coy. He shuddered and turned to capture her lips in a sloppy kiss.

“Then you’ll have it.” 

::::

It was the strangest string of four days Finstock had ever experienced. 

Sex of every stretch of the imagination was peppered with moments of serenity. Over those four days, Finstock became intimately acquainted with Kira’s body, every inch of her even though he had no idea what she looked like. He knew how to rub his cheek along her back or between her thighs to make her whimper, he knew that a bite on her lower back would make her gush, pressing back against him. Her breasts were soft, and she responded best to gentle, barely-there touches along her chest. 

He knew that her favorite flower was the hydrangea. He knew that the sound of windchimes made her nostalgic for summer nights when she’d catch fireflies in jars. He knew her voice would light up when she’d talk about the gardens she’d visited all over the world.

He knew that she liked her showers just a touch hotter than was strictly comfortable. He knew the feeling of her breath on his chest when they were too tired to do anything but fade into a brief sleep. 

He knew that she was funny, even if she didn’t believe it herself.

Ice cubes whirled in the thin glass as Finstock carefully poured his cocktail. 

Even blindfolded, Finstock could make a hell of a drink. He stirred in mint leaves before he slid the glass across the bar. Kira’s fingers bumped along his. It was almost over. Finstock’s skin was finally comfortable on his body, the fog from an Omega’s heat reduced to a dizzy tingle. 

He listened to her soft noise of surprise. 

“You said you liked mint,” Finstock walked out from behind the bar, sliding his arm around her shoulders so he could press a kiss to her temple. “What do you think?” 

Kira grinned, he could tell by how her voice went just a touch higher. 

“It’s so… refreshing? Is that the right word? It’s sweet without feeling like a cup of syrup.” She took another long sip, and over the entirety of the four days, Finstock hadn’t wanted to see her more than in that moment. “It’s unexpectedly pleasant.” She whispered the last part and the tips of her fingers were cold when they bumped against his hip. “Bobby…”

The last time was… slower than their usual frenzied chase from one orgasm to another. They knew each other now, well enough that laughing as they fell to the cushioned floor was… comfortable. Smiling against each other’s lips, their hands less about _grabbing_ and more about _caressing._ If it wasn’t for the leather strap across his eyes and the metal bars around her neck, Finstock could easily slip into thinking that they were lovers. 

It was easy to kiss her, dipping his tongue against hers, a tease of what she _knew_ he was capable of with his mouth. It was even easier to gently card his fingers through her hair while his other hand drifted down, slipping three fingers inside of her easily. 

Outside of the strange, sex-saturated oasis, Finstock was a weird bartender and an even weirder Alpha. He didn’t enjoy aggression even if it was passed off as flirtatious. He didn’t care about dominance, power, or pride. There was more to life than who could be the most imposing. He found his thrills in laughter and entertaining. 

Kira clenched on his fingers, her lips pressing against his throat and her _teeth_ skimming across his Adam’s apple. His neck was sensitive, which Kira _loved_ to exploit when she was feeling especially impatient. 

_“Bobby,”_ she somehow changed his name from pedestrian into prayer. She arched beneath him, her breasts pressing into his chest. “Bobby, I want it. Your knot.” She kissed him, a quick peck on the nose. “Please.” 

He laughed, ducking his head down as he shook with mirth, her breasts cushioning his unshaven cheek. 

“All right.” She kept kissing him in short bursts on his face because of how it made him giggle, and he could feel her smiling into each expression of affection. “All right, all right, hold your horses.” 

It was easier if they both laid down, her back against his chest. The metal around her neck was only slightly uncomfortable, but not enough to be distracting. Not when he slid his cock between her thighs. They’d finished like that previously, his fingers on her clit and her thighs squeezing around him… but that wasn’t what she wanted this time. 

“Come on,” Kira whined, her head falling back against his shoulder. “Let’s fucking do this.”

He didn’t have to see her to know that obscenity was one of the few luxuries she did not have, and yet she used this precious time to indulge. It was just another _thing_ that he knew, another detail that was forever ingrained in his brain. When she swore, it made her flush even hotter, he felt the way her skin would tremble beneath his hands with every curse. 

He gripped her hips and eased inside of her and he felt like the all the air was sucked out of the room. 

“Oh _fuck,”_ Bobby pressed his lips against the metal cage, his breath fanning against her neck, hard enough to make her whimper. “Kira, are you—”

_Okay? Good? Is this what you need? Is it better than what previously has been less than mediocre?_

She pressed back, taking more of him in and even though it was the last of her heat, even though after this they’d both be good to go and rejoin society, they both burned _hot._ Her breaths hiccuped out of her and she clenched down, making Finstock’s hips stutter forward. She moaned, full, and Finstock’s dragged his fingers up her thigh, feeling where they were connected, before circling her clit. 

Her heartbeat was all around him, drowning him in a steady cadence. 

They established their own rhythm, not brutal and not lazy, a strange middleground that made Finstock breathless for a number of reasons. The sensation of them building their pleasure together, the sounds of wet skin and whimpers, the scent… of _them._ Her and him _together._

Finstock’s cock swelled at the base, his hands cupping her breasts, too lost to do anything but just _hold her._ Cold metal dug into his collarbone when Kira leaned back, her voice hoarse and she came with a whimper, her teeth just managing to graze his ear. 

And they locked, with a sigh and with Finstock’s hand above her heart, holding her as she trembled. 

He kissed her shoulder and slowly moved his hands to massage her thighs.

“How are you feeling?” 

His voice was going to be shot the moment he returned home. He’d probably lose it for weeks, but it would be worth it. 

“Mm.” She hummed, high and uneven, twitching when Finstock’s cock pulsed. “It’s,” she nodded, her hands pressing over his, squeezing around him in a way that robbed them both of breath. “It’s really,” she laughed and she laughed with her whole body, a bubbly movement that had Finstock smiling against her skin, “ _really_ good. No. Sorry, it’s really _great._ Obviously.” 

He nipped the corner of her shoulder with his teeth. 

_“Obviously.”_

They laughed like it was going out of style. 

::::

Finstock draped clean sheets around himself moments before someone knocked on the door three times. Kira was already dressed in what felt like light, summery linen robes. Finstock lost track of his pajamas and he was sure they weren’t in any state for him to wear. The door opened with a long creak. 

“Kira,” Peter’s voice was clear as a bell, “how are you feeling?” 

“Much better.” Layers of propriety wrapped around her voice. Before he could make a move to stand with her, her fingers wove through his hair, keeping him place. “Thank you, Bobby.” 

He tilted his head up, slowly so she didn’t take her hands away. 

“No problem, Kira.” 

He wondered if she smiled, grimaced, or simply had no expression at all. Her fingers curled in his hair and _pulled,_ a short but _hard_ motion that instantly had his mouth dropping open. She retreated, her footsteps soft against the wood and staircase. 

Peter cleared his throat. 

“I’ll be back shortly, Finstock.” 

::::

Finstock never thought he’d be able to recognize the feel of his backyard against his feet, but he _did._ He stumbled out of the car as soon as Peter opened the door. His legs shook and he fell to his knees, basking in the crisp autumn air. He heard the engine purr, shoes against leaves, and Peter approached him. 

“Hold still.” Strong fingers gripped the back of Finstock’s head, smoothing along the leather strap. The lock _clicked,_ and the leather loosened and fell away. Finstock winced at the bright sunlight and covered his eyes, pressing hard until he saw spots. “Thank you for your discretion and hard work.” 

His clothes had been provided by the family that employed Peter. The material was nice and smooth against his skin. Peter kept his one hand on Finstock’s shoulder, the other slipping down his chest and beneath his jacket to his inside pocket. When he withdrew his hand, Finstock’s jacket was considerably heavier. 

Peter leaned down, his breath hot against Finstock’s ear. 

“Be a good Alpha,” he said in a slick, condescending tone that Finstock wasn’t any closer to figuring out whether it was genuine or not, “and count backwards from thirty before you open your eyes.”

By the time Finstock opened his eyes Peter was gone and he had six thousand dollars neatly bound in his pocket. 

::::

Bacon and brisket sizzled on the pan with onions and garlic. Erica and Isaac pushed in closer. Finstock didn’t like taking sick days, and he _especially_ didn’t like taking days off without fair notice. The kids said it was fine but he knew that handling the rushes on their own wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

“Sorry,” was the first word out of Finstock’s mouth after his shift ended and the morning crew came in. “It was an last minute heat call. An Omega friend asked and,” he moved from the meat to the potatoes in a separate pan, sprinkling spices and stirring so they didn’t burn, “I answered.” 

“God help them,” Erica snickered, not missing a beat. “Are they okay?” 

Finstock nodded. 

“Yeah.”

“Good.” 

And that was it. He still made them a hearty breakfast as the first in a twelve-step apology plan. Isaac ate with gusto, and Erica gave him a look like she _knew_ he was feeding them his guilt. The cuts of meat were expensive, the butcher’s eyebrows rose when Finstock insisted that _no_ he wasn’t mistaken and _yes,_ he’d be paying for that in cash. 

Life returned to… Finstock’s version of normal. 

Long nights, a sea of faces, mixing drinks, and cooking meals. Slowly coaxing Isaac into being brave enough to laugh at Finstock’s improvised stories, cackling with Erica over the latest gossip from the far reaches of the trading post, and coming home to crawl into bed, sometimes too exhausted to fully kick off his shoes. 

A week after, a package was mailed to the Crossroads Tavern addressed to Finstock. Inside was his pajamas and robe, washed and folded. No note. 

It’s strange what would send him reeling back to those four days. The sound of ice rattling in a glass, the smell of freshly cut mint, the feel of linen beneath his fingers. 

Little details. 

Still, he did his best not to dwell on it. He helped out an Omega in heat. That was it. 

Weathered but sturdy boots crunched across the snow. The middle of winter seemed to stretch on for eternity. The fireplace was constantly crackling at the bar, and the walks to the train station between shifts were agonizing. Part of the money went towards wool scarves and gloves for him and his staff. 

_“Alpaca wool,”_ Erica had said with wide eyes. 

_“I heard it’s really soft,”_ Isaac whispered. 

_“The guy at the market said it’s warm as shit so,”_ Finstock had shoved the wrapped gifts at them. _“Keep warm and stop whining about what kind of wool it is.”_

The late shift during the winter was typically a dead zone, more about maintenance of the bar than actual customer service. A few regulars still sat in their spots. Finstock kept the cider hot and the fire stoked. 

A new face sat at the bar a few hours in. Long braided hair covered by a hood and a decent beard. The cold wind had rubbed the man’s face raw until it was red and weathered. 

“Evening,” Finstock wiped down a glass, less of a cleaning necessity and more of a nervous compulsion. Winter always left him feeling anxious. “How can I help you?” 

The stranger rested his elbows on the bar. His eyes lifted and met Finstock’s and the shade of green was familiar. 

“Is it just me, or are halfway decent Alphas just impossible to find?” Finstock’s eyes darted to a face that _wasn’t_ Peter’s, because he remembered that Peter was handsome with smooth skin and no beard, yet… yet it _was_ Peter. “Hello.” 

Finstock’s throat was dry, his heart pounding hard in his chest. He was sweating, which was ridiculous considering the freezing temperatures outside. Finstock didn’t drop the glass, though it was a close call. He grabbed a mug off the rung behind him and filled it with cider. 

Peter accepted it even as Finstock stared at him, at the cheeks that were rounder, redder, with pock-marks. 

“Hello. _Again.”_

The disguise was remarkable, no matter how hard Finstock searched, he couldn’t find a hint of fake hair or latex. Even the mannerisms were heavier, sluggish, for someone who worked hard, laborious days. 

Peter itched at his beard and wrinkled his nose. 

“I thought it would be polite, and a show of good will, if I gave you a two week notice instead of… being spontaneous.”

“You mean knocking me out and blindfolding me in the back of a van.” 

“Precisely.” There was no moon out that night, the windows ink black. The effect was hypnotic, as though they were rocking gently at sea. “You are exceptional.” 

“Quit that shit.” It was too similar to the first night Peter had wandered into the bar. Finstock struggled to lower his voice from it’s usual obnoxious squawk. “What do you want?”

His heart thudded in his chest as Peter merely quirked an eyebrow, like Finstock was supposed to connect the dots. Finstock squared his jaw and waited, because he didn’t assume _shit_ until it was laid out in front of him. 

“Kira,” the mere mention of her _name_ brought a bone-settling _ache_ deep in his bones, “sent me to ask if you’d be her heat partner again. She _insisted_ that I am clear in my articulation that this is a request, not a demand. She completely understands if the last experience left you feeling uncomfortable.” 

Snow began to fall outside, and the few regulars that were there that night quickly left at the sight of the oncoming cold. Finstock refilled Peter’s mug. 

“Do I have to wear the blindfold again?” 

Peter cupped his hands around the warm ceramic. 

“I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable.” 

Finstock worried his lower lip, pulling back until he was leaning against opposite wall, his arms crossed. 

“She’s getting it in two weeks?” Peter nodded. Finstock felt Peter studying him, knowing exactly how he was going to answer without needing Finstock to actually vocalize it. He _should_ say no. He _should_ stay out of an already strange situation that was bound to get stranger. _But I’m pretty strange myself,_ Finstock thought as he ran his tongue over his teeth. “I’ll put in a notice for a heat leave.” 

Peter stood with a glimmering smile that was too polished for the face he was wearing. 

“Excellent.” He held out his hand for Finstock to take. “I’ll be in touch.”

The air outside was cold, unrelenting, and dark as Finstock shook Peter’s hand. When Peter’s smile widened into a grin, it wasn’t warm or kind. It was _curious._

Peter slid his fingers out of Finstock’s grip and bowed his head. He left like he arrived, silent and unassuming. The moment the door closed, Finstock shuddered, his palms slamming down onto the bar, as he ground his teeth and wondered just what the hell he was getting himself into.


	2. The Whiskey Princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s agreed to be your heat partner again.” Kira let out a long, trembling exhale, thankful that no one besides Peter was there to hear it. “I told you he would.” 
> 
> _No, you said he’d be like any other Alpha._ Peter’s smile softened like he heard her wry retort.

No matter the season, Yukimura Distilleries and Farms never stopped production.

Mist dripped down from the overhead sprinklers, gentle in a way that did not match the harsh winter winds just on the other side of the layered plastic sheets. Waves of amber rye whispered as Kira led their top chemists through the latest batch. 

“Great coloring,” one said.

“It also depends on the barrels,” another quickly shot back.

The distilleries were in never-ending motion. The beauty with whiskey was that no one cared what season it was, people would always be ready for a drink. The entire day was spent overlooking recipes, wood carving, spice racks, and seed production. It was… glorious.

Kira wiped sweat from her brow, shivering as the last chemists left the greenhouse. As another wailing gale blew, Peter slipped inside without a sound.

He unwrapped several layers of scarves that shielded his face from the cold. His beard was thick, his hair braided, and his skin weathered and cracked. 

“Expecting any more visits, Kira?” He pitched his voice lower, more battle-worn. Kira shook her head. “Perfect. All this facial hair is quite irritating.” 

He pulled off his disguise piece by piece, a process that Kira would never tire of. She held out her hands, collecting the thin pieces of latex and fake hair, gently untangling the braided wig, and fetching a washcloth to wipe away the elaborate illusion on his face. Peter worked methodically, his shoulders lowering as more of his true face was exposed. 

Kira helped him peel out of his carefully constructed raggedy clothes until he was in light linens. 

“How was it?” She tried not to sound too eager, too _hopeful._ It wasn’t becoming, not of a Yukimura, and _especially_ not the Yukimura heir. She was the Whiskey Princess, centuries of tradition, recipes, architecture, and recipes would be her inheritance. That, and fortune. _A lot_ of fortune. “I hope it wasn’t too difficult to find him.”

“Please,” Peter tossed the bits of latex and hair in the trash. “Don’t insult me.” 

They hurried back to the main house, large and nestled in the forest that was cut by a long, winding, private road. Large stone walls protected them, from thieves, rival families, or worse. Peter’s feet were light in the snow, silent, while Kira felt loud and clumsy. They threw open the doors to the house and sighed when they were able to bathe themselves in warm air. 

The house was full, the staff bustling to make dinner while their guards sang outside, the strange songs that Stiles would have them sing back and forth to each other as they went through drills. Fresh garlic and onion sizzled in the kitchens, candlelight flickered in the darkened windows, and Peter chased the cold from her fingertips with warm breath. 

“He’s agreed to be your heat partner again.” Kira let out a long, trembling exhale, thankful that no one besides Peter was there to hear it. “I told you he would.” 

_No, you said he’d be like any other Alpha._ Peter’s smile softened like he heard her wry retort. The main doors opened and Stiles and the first shift of guards poured on in, snowflakes chasing after them. 

“Peter!” Stiles’s cheery voice echoed throughout the halls. Kira knew other families who had similar Captains of the Guard. Smart, ruthless, cunning, with a team of loyal men and women under their command. The others Kira had seen had battle scars, worn voices, and little patience for deeper pleasures. Like love. “Oh geez, what are you _wearing_?”

One woman next to him snickered.

“More like what _isn’t_ he wearing.”

Stiles shoved her, not hard enough to hurt. He dismissed the shift with a wave of his hand, the second shift taking Stiles’s directions easily before they left on patrol. Stiles stripped off his jacket, hurrying to drape it over Peter’s shoulders. 

“I know your disguise clothes aren’t always fashionable,” Stiles wrapped his scarf around Peter’s neck, using it to pull Peter down for a kiss. “But if it means looking bad or keeping warm, keep warm.” 

“Yes.” Peter nipped Stiles’s lips. “Of course.” He skimmed his lips along Stiles’s temple and Kira smiled at the sight of them, ignoring the dull ache at seeing such affection. It wasn’t _proper_ for Kira to want such things. She could wait until marriage. Affection would come _after_ marriage. “How was your day, darling?” 

Where Stiles was about protection and guarding, Peter was about intelligence and information. He was slicker than oil and easily steered the conversation into the more mundane, comforting things. It was easy to listen to Stiles recount training, scouting, and patrolling. It was easy to joke over dinner, to sit beside her mother but also next to Peter. He’d whisper jokes under his breath when her mother and father were in deep conversation. 

Eventually, these pleasant days of normalcy would end. 

_Marriage_ hung over her like a stormcloud, dark and encompassing. 

Peter had brought her the files. Quietly, in the dead of night, with a simple touch on her arm to wake her. 

_“I thought you’d like to see this,”_ he said the moment she opened her eyes. Kira moved over and Peter sat down with her. She always enjoyed that part of him that made him treat her… not like the heiress she was. Almost like they were friends. _“I’ll return it before anyone knows it was missing.”_

Her fingers had been quick. Peter always said that when dealing with any kind of important information, time was of the essence. Peter struck a match, blocking out the light with his hand so it wouldn’t cast towards her locked door. 

Inside were neatly bound papers, of dowry offerings, ledgers that tracked possible mergers depending on which family Kira married into. Each one had it’s promises. Acres of land. Rivers of fuel. Stacks and _stacks_ of money. Each single member of each lucrative family had small blurbs written up about them. General likes, dislikes, and even sexual habits and preferences. 

Kira closed it after three and a half minutes. 

_“You gathered this information.”_ It wasn’t a question. Peter was a thorough Spymaster. She lifted her eyes to meet Peter’s. _“You weren’t supposed to show it to me.”_

She knew how her parents operated. She knew just by looking that this list was something for them to see. Kira understood. It was how they were married, how her grandparents were married, and so on and so on. 

Peter put his career on the line. To give Kira four minutes, four minutes to memorize the names, faces, and preferences of the candidates. It was more of an advantage that any of her ancestors had. 

He blew out the match. She found his hand in the dark. 

_“Thank you, Peter.”_

He held her hand for twenty seconds before soft lips pressed against her knuckles. 

::::

_God, why does anyone do **anything** when orgasms exist?_

Flowers blossomed beneath her skin, her skin was slick with sweat, and liquid pleasure pooled at the bottom of her spine. Knots always satisfied in an instinctive way. The swell and _release_ had always been about calm, about being able to think straight. It didn’t matter who the knot was attached to, what they smelled, kissed, or fucked like. Kira just need to practice, she just needed a clear head. The worst part about her heat was the time she lost. She enjoyed developing new recipes, seeds, and agricultural layouts for their farms. She hated missing cask construction and big shipments out to the neighboring towns. 

_Make the most use of your practice_ her mother would say. _And as soon as you’re well again you’ll return ready for work._

Before… the first few years were filled with Alphas who did fine. Peter made the word sound dirty. Fine meant adequate and adequate was satisfactory. Kira never asked for anything more than satisfactory. She’d ignore the Alphas below her, go over the ledgers of shipments in her head, of spice rubs for recipes, of… of the ledger that Peter showed her in the middle of the night. 

It was different with Bobby. 

“Oh God.” 

Calloused fingers gently rubbed over her nipples, steady, gentle pulls and tugs that made her thighs twitch, and she’d just _come_ but he was slowly building her back up. He was still deep inside, pressing into her in such a _delightful_ way. It kept her dizzy, it kept her heart pounding, and it was… 

It was better than _anything._

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. Kira whimpered. She knew that tongue well, and she wasn’t bored of it. Not even close. He pinched her nipples and Kira whined, her hips chasing _another_ orgasm. 

“Bobby,” he _pulsed_ inside of her. His cheeks were flushed, just like her, just like _all of her_. “Bobby, _Bobby_ —” 

It hit hard. It always hit hard. Quaking through her until she was panting against his lips, until she was swallowing his soft moans. She had never liked kissing her previous partners, it always felt like she was being eaten. 

Bobby’s tongue was soft against hers, gently easing her down, his cock still hard and still _pulsing._

She pulled back, slumping against his chest. Her breath shuddered in her lungs, her body still clenching down on him.

“Hey,” Bobby’s fingers trailed down her back, holding her close. “Are you all right?” 

Kira giggled and pressed her lips to his so he could taste her smile. 

“I’m wonderful.” Kira dragged her lips over his stubble, biting his cheek when he smiled. “I’m _so wonderful,_ Bobby.” 

She barely restrained the _I missed you_ that had been on the tip of her tongue ever since Peter had brought Bobby back. Ever since he took her hands with much more comfort than last time. Once she got her breath back, she gently carded her hands through his hair, her fingers smoothing over the wrinkles in his forehead, her lips pressing against the crown of his head. 

It took a half hour before his knot went down, before Bobby could finally slip from her but they both didn’t want to move away. She snuggled closer, twitching a bit when his cock slipped free. She kissed him, suckling his lower lip between her teeth, savoring how it made his hips jump up. 

Then his stomach growled. 

“Don’t move,” Kira pressed him back into the mattress. “I’ll get food.” 

She fell on her first attempted to stand, but managed to get to the kitchen. She returned with containers of cut up fruit, fresh from the greenhouses, and bottled water. Bobby sat cross-legged on the padded floor, his lips red and wet. He looked… sinful, naked, his cock resting against his thigh, the thick black leather strap stark against his pale skin, and his flushed chest raising with every breath. 

He turned towards her when her feet made it to the padding. 

“Hello, gorgeous.” 

Kira laughed, sliding into his lap effortlessly.

“I could be hideous.” She opened a container of mango. She ran the fruit over his lips and he opened his mouth. _Decadent,_ Kira thought when Finstock hummed low in his throat, his tongue gently licking all the juices from her fingers. “You don’t know.”

Feeding him felt sensually taboo, an Alpha at an Omega’s mercy. That was the problem with the other Alphas, they insisted on feeding themselves, increasingly angry that they’d need an Omega’s help. The kitchen and bathroom always got messy, and by the end of the heat they’d often scratch at the metal around her neck, trying to get it off, to assert the final act of dominance—

“I don’t have to see you to know you’re beautiful.” He smiled, dopey and sweet. “May I have another, please?” 

_Please, thank you, so good, Kira, you’re so, so good, please—_

Alphas rarely said things like that, yet Bobby used them in abundance. Kira fed him another piece, becoming hungrier with every bite he took. _Where did you come from,_ she thought as his tongue swiped over her fingers, _how did you get to be so…_

“Breathtaking.” 

Bobby paused.

“What?” 

“Nothing,” she pushed the fruit away. Slick ran down her thighs and she licked the mango taste from his mouth. “Nothing, Bobby.” 

::::

The bathwater sloshed against the porcelain. The water was warm, though in about twenty minutes it would lose that warmth and Kira and Bobby would have to towel off. But for right then, it was the alluring slide of wet skin combined with the laziness of… deep, deep intimacy. Bobby couldn’t see her, but he _knew_ her unlike any other. He knew her with his lips, his fingers, his body… he _knew_ her. 

His fingers gently tapped on hers before he wove them together, his chest pressed against her back, his legs spread so she could sit between them. 

“You ever been to a harvest festival before?” 

Bobby’s voice was like the finest whiskey freshly poured over carved ice. Kira shifted in his arms, running her fingers over the various knicks on his skin, scars, patches of freckles. 

“Probably not in the way that you mean.” Kira smiled, hoping that she didn’t sound as wistful as she felt. “I’m used to… a more private celebration. With immediate family and staff.” 

Bobby hummed, his hands swirling under the water, his thumb rubbing circles over her knee. He kissed her cheek. 

“Well, that does sound nice, but if you ever want something a little sloppy and loud, I’d say give it a try.” He moved his knees, his thighs bracketing her. It never felt suffocating, even as she turned in his grip, relishing the change in sensation of her chest against his chest, his hands sliding down her back. “The one in Beacon Hills is a real party. There are fireworks, bands, dancing, and so much booze and food. The whole town shuts down for two days after so everyone can recover.” 

Kira did her best to picture it. The crowds of people, the smell of fresh food, the taste of alcohol on her tongue. Kira knew that she was expected to make any moments of clarity count. Her partners were tools to be used to acquire those moments of free thinking. 

It had been easier before. When her Alphas had just been that: tools. A device meant to be used until she no longer had a need for them. The unpleasant departures that were filled with gnashed teeth and grabbing hands were worth it for the detachment. 

“Tell me more,” Kira watched goosebumps break out over Bobby’s arms when she touched him. “Please.” 

Drunken songs with erratic rhythms that Bobby’s coworkers were able to perform tricks to filled Kira’s mind. Parades of food during the day that bled into festive feasts at night. Lights strung up from booth to booth, connecting in spider web pathways that led to the main stage. Bands that stomped their feet hard enough that the audience joined, and the beat traveled far enough to make the glasses tremble on Bobby’s shelves.

Even after they’d toweled off, their conversation stretched into the everyday. To cleaning glasses, mixing drinks, and catching up on gossip. Bobby claimed it was boring, but to Kira they were just as beautiful as descriptions of holidays. She wanted to see him on his day-to-day. She wanted to know Bobby the way others knew him. 

She wanted to know what color his eyes were. 

She kissed his cheek before they parted ways. Peter waited by the door, and even if they’d been alone, Kira would choke down all the goodbyes she wished to give him. All the promises she had no business making. 

Insead, she brushed her thumb along his cheek. 

“Thank you for your time, Bobby.” 

::::

Spring brought on flowers and acres of farmland heavy with fruit. Winter was always long and the stretches of freezing quiet made Kira anxious for the warmth to return. 

Her footsteps were quick down the long stretch of path towards their orchards. Fruits and flowers were utilized in jams and sweet liqueurs, their most popular being their apricot jams and the amaretto made from the pits. It was a subtle flavor, where it was best tasted with closed eyes to really take in all the light, amber hints that danced across the tongue. 

Her days were spent under the sun, tracking soil pH levels, monitoring the new fertilizers in development, and laughing with gardeners as they activated the sprinklers just moments before she could dodge out of their way. The Yukimura family house and farm was an oasis. Kira knew that outside the walls were full of uncertainties, rivals looking to steal recipes and hijack their trains full of deliveries. 

On the longer delivery runs, Stiles would come back with new scars and bruises, but always with a vicious smile, one that Peter was addicted to. Stiles would sit with hot, wet cloths pressed against his welts as he regaled her and Peter with the grisly details. Masked men, flaming arrows, and a battle of wit and reflexes that always made Kira shiver. 

It was hard to believe that such troubles existed when she stood under sunlit flower petals, dirt clinging to the bottom of her feet as the sprinklers hissed, capturing small rainbows in their mist. 

_“Stiles is exposed to the darker things beyond our walls,”_ Peter had gently reminded her when she struggled to shake the shadows from her mind. He carefully brushed her hair, his fingers gently untangling knots before he soothed over the strands with her comb. _“The everyday man and woman live in relative peace. Life is about struggling, overcoming, and the friends they make along the way.”_

Kira thought of that night when she caught a glimpse of her parents shaking the hands of a young man up the hill. She thought about the feel of Peter’s fingers in her hair, of his careful movements when she exhaled. 

_“It’s doesn’t sound so bad.”_

The young man was one of the candidate off her list. _Alejandro._ He hunted deer for sport, considered himself to be a good dancer even though he was not, and still had his mother cook all his meals for him. Kira returned her pH equipment to the shed and took her time climbing the hill. 

She would never forget the way Alejandro’s eyes widened, how his gaze darted down to her bare feet, to her collarless neck, and then averted quickly. Funny, how within seconds, Kira thought _not you_ with sadistic satisfaction. 

“Kira,” her mother’s smile was tight around the edges, no doubt aware enough of Kira’s tastes to know that Alejandro was not going to be their son-in-law. “Meet Alejandro. He’s been eager to make your acquaintance.” 

Kira held out her hand. 

“Pleasure.” 

Alejandro winced, his eyes narrowing and lips pressed into a thin, white line. 

“Is that really appropriate?” 

Kira recalled how Peter had gently placed the brush back down on her nightstand, his hand heavy on her shoulder. 

_“You’re meant for a better life, Kira.”_

The more time passed, the more Kira had to doubt Peter’s definition of the word _better._

::::

Floral scents weighed down the spring air as more and more candidates visited. Each one with their own set of problems. 

Alejandro had been a traditionalist bore. Casey was a slob with no manners. Thomas had no sense of humor. George barely said two words to her but never stopped staring at her neck. The complaints went on until Kira realized they were almost halfway through the list that she wasn’t supposed to be aware of. 

When her heat came it was a relief. 

Her heart pounded hard in her chest as Peter gently fastened the metal cage around her neck. He squeezed her hands and promised he’d drive fast. Kira waited in her heat room, draped in satin robes. 

She wrung her hands, her sticky thighs not enough of a distraction from the inevitable conclusion that these meet-ups would have to stop as soon as she was engaged. Eventually, she would have to pick someone. Because while Alejandro had been a bore, he a fleet of ships that could deliver overseas. Casey’s family engineered some of the most impressive watering systems that Kira had ever seen. Thomas had expansive train lines that could add to what the Yukimura’s already owned. George had two huge farms in the United States, but most of their family’s business was in Europe. 

Each one, while distasteful, offered great things to the Yukimura family. 

All Kira needed to do was swallow her feelings about them and just _pick one._

The problem was the more she thought about it, the less she ate, the less she smiled, and the less she slept. Peter could tell right away, and when Kira couldn’t get over it, couldn’t trick herself into having a calm mind, he resorted to makeup. 

Blue eyeshadow to cover up bloodshot eyes, extra blush to fight her pallid cheeks, and when her parents started staring too close, subtle padded latex to round out her cheeks that were too close to sunken for comfort. 

_“I’ll be fine,”_ Kira insisted as Peter snuck into her room before sunup to apply makeup. _“I just need to get used to the idea.”_

The idea of settling. Of marrying for… trade routes, blueprints, territory. Things she _wanted_ for her family. Things she _knew_ were important. The words _Don’t be selfish_ kept her up at night. It was only a matter of time before those words were finally spoken aloud over dinner, either her mother or father snatching them out of the air so they were out in the open instead of just a haunting spectre. 

When she did sleep, she dreamt of dancing under strung up lights that swayed in the night air. 

The door opened and Peter returned with Bobby. He was in pajamas that would have to be cleaned later, and he quickly toed off his shoes as Peter caught a look at Kira. Usually she’d verbally dismiss him, politely as always, before moving toward her heat partner. 

Just looking at Bobby sent her body awash in warmth. She made some sort of motion with her hand, a rude signal for Peter to leave. She’d be embarrassed later, but she was too busy rushing forward, pulling Bobby close, capturing his lips with hers. His hands flailed for a moment before finding her hips, before he slowed her desperate affection into something with less bites and more _licks._

The door closed behind them and Kira didn’t care. 

“Easy,” Bobby smiled, crooked and wide. “I missed you too.” 

He said it so easily. Kira froze, her shoulders wound tight. She should push him away, she should call for Peter _immediately_ because heat partners were supposed to be tools, a means to an end. _Nothing more_ than that. She needed to separate herself, to plunge into an ice bath and go over her list of potential husbands in her head. She needed… she needed…

“I missed you.” Kira kissed him, a little too hard. “I missed you so fucking much, Bobby.” 

She needed to be thinking about her future, but Kira ignored it. 

Why worry about what was going to happen when the present was so alluring?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh an update! 
> 
> I like this tiny little piece, this won't be long, I think maybe 4 or 5 chapters at most. But it's fun to write, super fun to practice smut ETC. I'm kinda using this as an escape because life is getting a little stressful with my roommate moving out and I'm a bit nervous about living on my own. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoyed hits!
> 
> Come say hi to me on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/).


	3. The Spymaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Peter first came to the Yukimura complex, Kira had been eight years old. Noshiko explained Peter’s role in their ranks, and, should he prove himself, his long-term purposes for her daughter. 
> 
>  
> 
> _“As a Spymaster and Secret Keeper, you’ll be a guide, a level-headed voice in her ear. All you know, all you believe, and the way you bring brutality to your intelligence collection— it will all be in service of my daughter Kira.”_

Peter was lounging in bed when Stiles came into their quarters. He paused in the doorway, and then quickly closed the door behind him, kicking off his boots. 

“I forgot it’s Kira’s heat week.” Stiles threw his shirt somewhere in the corner. “I get so many hours of you,” Stiles’s knees hit the mattress and he pulled Peter in for a kiss, “all to myself.” 

Falling in love had never been Peter’s intention when he first began working for the Yukimuras as their Spymaster. He came with impressive detective skills, disguises, and a mind full of secrets that the Yukimuras paid a great fee for, and the rest of his career was generously funded by Noshiko. She paid well and told him, from the start, that he was a gift to her daughter. 

_Everything you learn, everything you covet, bribe, and rip from others, will be for her._

Love had no place for a man like Peter, yet here he was, kissing his husband and pulling him closer. Peter shouldn’t have flirted with the Captain, he shouldn’t have seduced him over wine, and he certainly shouldn’t have married him in a small ceremony with Kira and her parents as witnesses. 

Stiles’s hands were calloused while Peter’s were soft, Stiles’s body was bruised while Peter’s was without blemish. 

Peter lalved his tongue over Stiles’s aches of the day. He gently undid every knot of stress that had woven under his husband’s skin. Stiles slack and loose against his bed was one of Peter’s favorite sights. 

“Oh God,” Stiles’s check was flushed, his nipples pebbled in the cold air. “I missed you so fucking much.” 

The words weren’t anything new, Stiles had said them hundreds of times because they both had focused jobs and responsibilities. It was a sentiment that Peter had no problem returning, because he _did_ miss Stiles. _Missing Stiles_ was branded inside of him, it was a constant taste in the air, it was a longing that was dangerous. _I’d do terrible things for you,_ Peter often thought whenever he had a moment alone with his husband. _All you would have to ask, my love, and I would end legacies._

Stiles writhed under his mouth. Peter scissored his fingers inside of him, pushing up against the spot that made Stiles beg so sweetly. _Please, Peter, please. Please, please—_

 _I missed you so fucking much._

Peter’s grip stuttered on Stiles’s hips. Stiles laughed, his eyes shining in the dark. 

“Come on, you tease,” Stiles was so warm around him, so perfect beneath him, and yet Peter felt everything in his mind screech to a halt. “Peter, fuck me, _please—”_

His hips snapped forward on instinct. Stiles shrieked with delight, his face so _open,_ so _trusting,_ and it was all _his_ to witness, devour, and _worship._ Peter shuddered and went back to taking his husband apart. He kissed him, leaving marks up his long, pale neck. Stiles tightened around him, his ankles locking behind Peter’s back. 

_I missed you so fucking much._

Stiles’s hot come splashed across Peter stomach. Sparks hit up at the base of Peter’s spine and spiraling, dizzy pleasure dug into his teeth. He tried to fuck through it, through the observations he trained his brain into remembering, into latching on by the throat and never letting go. 

_Please,_ Stiles whimpered. The same way that… the same way that…

 _I missed you so fucking much, Bobby._

“Mmm.” Warm satisfaction hummed in Stiles’s chest. Slender, calloused, and dangerous fingers gently traced down Peter’s back. Gentle hands that Peter know could rip a man’s stomach out. Those same hands cupped Peter’s face. “Where did you go?” 

Peter groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows. 

“I’d be out of a job if you told the Yukimuras about how easily you read me.” 

Stiles smiled, his thumb tracing the thin lines around Peter’s eyes. 

“It’s a talent very few have, I’m sure.” _Very few_ indeed. Peter sat up, his lower back aching. He swung his legs over the bed, letting the stone floor freeze his toes. Stiles’s scarred torso dragged up Peter’s back as he rested his chin on Peter’s shoulder. “Anything serious?” 

_I hope not,_ Peter barely kept the words from spilling over his tongue. He kissed Stiles’s knuckles. 

“If it is, my dear, you’ll the first to know.” 

::::

When Peter first came to the Yukimura complex, Kira had been eight years old. Noshiko explained Peter’s role in their ranks, and, should he prove himself, his long-term purposes for her daughter. 

_“As a Spymaster and Secret Keeper, you’ll be a guide, a level-headed voice in her ear. All you know, all you believe, and the way you bring brutality to your intelligence collection— it will all be in service of my daughter Kira.”_

Peter expected Kira to be like the other heirs and heiresses he’d come into contact with: at best naive and empty-headed, and at worst spoiled rotten. 

He didn’t expect a sharp science mind that shaped new flavors and fortunes for the Yukimura name. 

Ken and Noshiko were a brilliant business-minded couple and Peter knew that they were surprised that Kira didn’t inherit their passion, but had instead deviated into overseeing their agricultural development. Peter remembered being relieved, because working for financiers was boring, but if he could swing a long-term service for the Yukimuras, he’d be working for a genius Omega. 

A workaholic genius who had developed a habit of skipping meals, and not just because of breakthroughs. 

Kira could be found in the gardens, the greenhouses, the distilleries, or the laboratories. After heats, she stuck to the labs, eager to bury herself back into work. 

“You haven’t eaten. Again.” Peter slid onto a quickly vacated chair. Whenever Peter was after Kira, the staff were quick to leave them alone. Kira sighed, watching the last analyst leave. “Kira.” 

“I forgot.” She undid the buckles that attached the magnifying apparatus to her head, gently placing it on the table. Sketches of seeds and plant anatomy filled her workspace, and while Peter could easily replicate her notes, he had no chance of understanding them. She tucked frizzy stray hairs behind her ear. “I swear, I just forgot.” 

He stayed with her until she picked at the plate of food he’d brought. 

“ _Forgetting_ will stop serving a believable excuse to your parents.” Peter watched her face, how her expression tightened, and how her lips were cracked around the ledges. “Kira.” 

She pressed hands against her eyes and her breathing became uneven for a few moments. 

“I’m stupid. I know.” Kira pulled her hands away, her eyes finally meeting Peter’s. “I need to make a decision.” 

Peter didn’t bother with empty platitudes about how she had time, how she didn’t have to rush. The clock was ticking. Both the Yukimuras and whichever family Kira would tie herself to would want heirs and heiresses. Deal would be written, deeds exchanged. The empire would keep growing and the whiskey would keep flowing. 

Kira swallowed a mouthful of breakfast, her finger tapping along her sketch, a new strain of wheat. Kira’s mind was always awash in botany and anatomy. A terrible, _traitorous_ part of Peter wished that Kira had been born into a less noble family. A common family, so she could be an analyst, a lab technician, a farmer— because that was where her true potential waited. 

If her future husband decided he wanted her to live in his territory, Kira would not be allowed to _lower herself_ with plant study. 

“Could you do something for me, Peter?” 

Peter had always been happy to suggest things to Kira, to come up with the plans, to listen to what she needed and deliver an efficient solution. Kira had been raised to be a proper lady, which meant she never _asked_ for anything. If she needed something that wasn’t immediately available, she was to manipulate her way to getting it.

She only _asked_ Peter for something once.

 _“Could you see if that… that last Alpha would like to come back? For the next heat?”_

Peter double-checked that they were alone. He leaned in close, just in case the chirping birds weren’t enough of a cover. He held out his hand, palm up. Kira’s fingers were soft. Nimble. Precise. Her velvet skin was telling of her pedigree. 

Her mind… her mind was an anomaly. 

Peter _loved_ anomalies. 

“Could you put together a more detailed dossier on Casey Decker and George Belfast? They’re the final two contenders.” Her silk fingers hardened, squeezing his hand. “Detailed, Peter.” 

_One day I hope you’re eager to ask things of me,_ Peter thought with a grin. 

“Of course.” 

:::: 

For Casey Decker, Peter made his cheeks chubby, his hair blonde, and his face accented with a slightly unkempt beard. He was a loud drinking buddy, a confidant who could drink Casey under the table in any dive. For George Belfast, Peter darkened his hair to a deep brown. He gave himself a goatee and slim, sleek outfits. He was an entertainer, a provider of decadence and perversions. 

He spent a month with each man, growing close. He had detailed sketches of them both, every part of their body clothed and unclothed. Sexual appetites, preferences, treatment of men, women, Alpha, Beta, and Omega had all been meticulously recorded. 

Casey was a standard traditionalist, all the Omegas on staff were required to wear high collars and long sleeves. His preferred pornography was fairly vanilla that often featured soft and sweet omegas doting on their brave and brutal Alphas. He ate with his hands and sucked the juices off his fingers. He fucked the same way, when Peter would accompany him to brothels or parties, it became apparent that Casey had no qualms how every kiss or bite he gave sounded like he had a month-long cold and was trying to eat soup with no spoon. He had little to no endurance and never acknowledged his partner’s satisfaction. 

George used sophistication to hide behind his sleaze. His home dripped with wine and woven tapestries. Each room was expertly decorated in warm and cool colors, providing a perfect visual balance. It was a clever disguise for his more… exotic tastes. Leather, collars and… humiliation and sadism. His favorite sexual meal was taking a pretty Omega, male or female, and not finishing with them until their skin was bruised and their lips and eyes were wet from overstimulation. What worried Peter was the lack of safe words, and how some of the partners George brought in had no idea what they were in for. 

By the time Peter returned back to the Yukimura complex, he was exhausted. It was the dead of night and he slipped through one of the many secret passageways that avoided the guards. He stripped off his disguise and held his bag close to his chest where he had two hand-written, leather bound books on the bachelors. 

He took off his shoes so that his feet were silent against the stone floor. He didn’t stop by his room to wash his face or fall into bed, cuddling up against Stiles until he could remember his own body. 

Instead he eased his key into Kira’s door. He slipped through, his eyes adjusted to the dark. 

The first thing he noticed was the smell. 

Even as a Beta, an Omega’s heat was still potent and recognizable scent. 

Peter stepped over bedding, strewn clothes, suitcases, and papers until he reached Kira’s private bathroom, light peeking out from under the door. 

“Kira,” he heard a shriek, a slip, and a splash. “I’m coming in.” 

He pushed open the door, the light stinging his eyes. 

Kira clung to the side of her sunken bath. Her eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed and slick with tears. 

“You shouldn’t be back yet.” Her voice trembled, frail and thin in a way it hadn’t been since she was a child. Hearing her fear made an animalistic sharp _fear_ run through his body. She squeezed her eyes shut. “It came early and you shouldn’t _fucking_ be here.” 

The light bled out into her bedroom. Peter glanced back, at the half-packed bags, at Kira’s new cask catalogues, recipes, a small satchel of new hybrid seeds… and jewelry. Ink and her finest paper laid out on her desk, the very top lines saying _I am very sorry._

“I wanted… I wanted to share my findings.” His own voice sounded far away, his mind whirling at the information, at how to proceed. “To be back in time for your heat and grab Bobby.” 

Her breaths still came in thick hiccups, her shoulders hunched. Peter closed the bathroom door so the light wouldn’t attract anyone. He took a deep breath and when he exhaled, he had all the knowledge he needed. He knelt by the bath, not caring when the water seeped through his pants. Kira had pressed herself to the far end of the bath, like Peter was going to drag her out by the hair, like he was going to throw her at her parents feet and reveal what her heat had interrupted. 

He kept his legs out of the water, but still sat down on the wet tiles. He took some water and splashed it on his face, moving his hands to knead at his tense shoulders. 

When he opened his eyes, Kira stared at him. She still looked ready to bolt. To where, in her current state, Peter wasn’t sure. 

He stretched out his right hand, keeping it above the water, with his palm facing up. More than enough room for her to breathe, for her to remain at a safe distance. 

The sound of Kira’s quick breathing echoed off the walls. Sweat dripped down Peter’s temple. 

He waited. 

::::

Kira was thirteen when she presented. 

Peter remembered the day because he’d been woken from his bed by Noshiko. He had to stop his hand from shooting out to defend himself when he saw his employer’s face, her wild eyes and tense jaw. 

“I need your help with something that isn’t specifically in your job description.” 

Peter sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he pulled on pants. 

He thought Noshiko’s statement was odd, because Peter’s job description was not only to collect intelligence, but to do whatever the Yukimuras asked. That was the case with any of the staff. And the Yukimuras were kinder than most families of equal legacy and wealth. She hadn’t asked him to change out of his sleep pants or soft shirt, leading him with her husband down to the main wing, to Kira’s room. 

“She won’t let us in.” 

Peter pressed his hand on Kira’s door. 

“Did she barricade the doors?” 

“No.” Noshiko crossed her arms. “But… she screamed when we tried opening it.” Noshiko was calm even as her husband wrung his hands. “She requested your presence.” 

Her childhood room had been brighter with elaborate murals of fantasy realms painted on the walls. She had a foyer, a playroom, a reading nook, and a bedroom with a connected bath. Peter stepped onto foyer’s soft carpet. It was dark, though Kira’s shoes had been kicked off, not delicately placed at the holder on the side.

The reading nook was missing a few books, a few on the floor, and the curtains had been torn from the hangers. The playroom was also missing chairs and Kira’s favorite toy, a small stuffed mouse. 

Her bedroom door was closed. 

“Kira.” Peter had a thin silver key. “Kira, I’m here.” 

He waited for a few moments before he turned the key. 

The scent almost knocked him over. He had never witnessed an Omega’s presentation, he’d only read about it, but instinctually he knew the situation the moment he opened the door. Kira had pushed her bed over, the mattress facing the door and the curtains had been shoved under the door to keep the scent from crawling out. _Smart girl,_ Peter thought as he quickly closed the door and fixed the curtains to be stuffed along the bottom. He heard sniffling from behind the bed and he waited. Adrenalin had kicked his heartbeat into overdrive. An Omega presenting was a _very_ private moment, the vulnerability was never to be understated. If Peter had been an Alpha he’d be half out of his mind with concern. 

Kira peeked out from behind her overturned bed frame. 

“I can’t be an Omega.” Kira hiccuped, her eyes shining in the dark. “Mom will be so u-upset.” 

Peter stepped closer until he crouched down to crawl with her behind the barrier. She had taken her favorite books, toys, and blankets behind her. She had her stationary set and he saw the words, scrawled out in her messy handwriting, _I am very sorry._ Peter lifted his arm and Kira immediately pressed herself beneath it, the way she would after a long day of studying. Her body was slick with a layer of sweat and her skin was clammy. Peter pulled the blankets tighter around her. 

“Why would she be upset?” 

“B-Because… Because Omegas are useless.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “They’re like cows, good for milking and breeding—” 

Peter pinched her arm and leaned away so he could look at her. She lifted her head and Peter took a deep breath. 

“Kira, do you find me to be a bland, boring, and brainless Beta?” 

“ _What?”_ Kira drew back. “No, Peter. That’s _ridiculous—”_

“I know. And that’s why I don’t want to hear that kind of backwards thinking coming from your mouth.” 

He gently tucked some hair behind her ear. He sat with her until his legs went numb, until her grip on his shirt lessened. He pulled up one of her sketchbooks, turning through the pages of flowers, plants, detailed at an impressive rate for her age. Her handwriting was atrocious, but she could detail every vein of a flower petal with precision. 

Kira sniffed and Peter’s sleeve was wet when she lifted her head. 

“Some people believe it, though.” 

“You’ve heard me complain about morons, haven’t you?” Kira giggled at the language. She wiped her eyes and Peter helped her to her feet. He pulled the scrunched up curtains away from her door and held her hand as they walked to her parents. He squeezed her fingers before she reached for the doorknob. “Kira, there are always ways to break expectation. No matter your orientation, _you,”_ he squeezed her fingers, “control the person you are.” 

Kira’s small hand trembled in his as she opened the door.

::::

Summers brought on the strongest, fiercest storms. Crackling thunder, fiery lightning, and floods. 

Kira had to wait for summer. Two heat cycles. Two cycles spent in ice baths, with blue lips and no companion. Two cycles to go over what needed to be done. 

_One, two—_

_**Crack!** _

Peter counted between flashes of lightning and thunder, the walls of the complex shaking. Stiles breathed even next to him, exhausted enough to sleep through chaos. Peter sat up at the next flash. He straddled Stiles and slipped a syringe into his neck. 

Stiles’s eyes flew open, his throat jumping, eyes wide. His muscles jumped under Peter’s legs. His arms jerked, his fingers gripping the sheets before freezing in place. Stiles’s throat bobbed, his eyes meeting Peter’s. Peter flung the syringe to the side. 

“Don’t worry, my dear, this will only last for a half hour. It will hurt, but you’ll be fine.” A harsh exhale few out of Stiles’s clenched teeth, his eyes shining in the dark. It hurt Peter, unimaginably so, to see his husband like this. “I love you, sweetheart,” Peter kissed Stiles, a chaste goodbye across an enraged, frozen grimace. “This isn’t your fault.” 

Peter stepped off him, grabbed his packed bags, and left his husband behind, rumbling thunder covering up Stiles’s choked grunts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think there will only be two more chapters. I hope this didn't come across sloppy. These few weeks have been a little rough in work and I honestly used fic as an escape. So yeah if this isn't up to the usual standard I apologize. 
> 
> On a lighter note, I love having Peter as this like... very cunning spymaster for a noble, goodhearted person. And we'll see where his sharp mind brings us in the next chapter.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [**tumblr**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/).


	4. The Captain of the Guard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter said it would last thirty minutes. 
> 
> _Fuck you I’m not sitting here for thirty minutes._ After five he could rotate his right wrist and move his fingers, grasping the mattress beneath him and pulling. Pull, release, pull, release— until he got his body rocking hard enough that he could roll off the bed.

Lightning flashed against Stiles’s ceiling. Rain fell in sheets against the window. The wind howled and it was almost loud enough to make Stiles deaf to his own strangled breath. 

He was frozen in his bed, the sheets half off his body, his eyes wide, his mouth frozen in a surprised frown. His heart hammered in his ears and he tried to scream, to call out, to vocalize _anything_ — but the air limply pushed past this lips. He had enough muscle control to breathe, but nothing else. 

The first, shallow, reactionary instinct was to be angry. 

No, not angry. 

_Livid._

It was frightening, how tempting it was to just sink into the bitter, stinging betrayal that seared across his skin like fire. No one would have blamed him for letting his vision well with tears, to curse Peter’s name as he ground his teeth into dust. _Reactionary feelings are for fools,_ Peter had said to him once, a long time ago when they only met during the occasional night patrol. When Peter had only been a voice in the dark. 

Stiles pulled in more air. His vision remained clear. 

He counted the seconds, breathing and constantly monitoring his muscles until _finally,_ his fingers in his right hand were able to clench into a fist. 

::::

Stiles took the job because being _honorably discharged_ had nearly given his father a heart attack. Stiles understood, on a textbook level, that losing his son to overseas combat would be… heartbreaking, terrifying, everything that kept his father up at night until Stiles had returned home. Stiles wanted to go back, because he enjoyed being pushed, physically and mentally, a constant shrill in the back of his mind, a meditative chant. _Survive. Survive. Survive._

It definitely wasn’t healthy. 

His dad’s teary eyes had Stiles stop and reconsider. 

He only applied to the Yukimuras. Their posting had been for a position in their private security force and while his father had been relieved, Stiles had been excited. The other families from ancient wealth were happy to sit on their money and live in bored decadence for the rest of their lives. The Yukimuras were _not_ happy to sit still. 

Stiles might have to adjust to a slightly _slower_ work routine, but the Yukimuras were always expanding and requiring protection for their whiskey recipes. 

He was the youngest kid in the room. Fresh back from overseas, the stink of gunpowder thick on his skin. He remembered how Noshiko’s eyebrows had raised primly at his age. It had been a group interview with a bunch of old geezers who’d never experienced conflict, who had glowing recommendations from high caliber families that made Stiles want to scream. 

All he had to show was experience and a scarred, lean body. 

It was an all-day interview, and Stiles sat in the far end of the garden during their lunch recess. The other guys, the _older gentlemen with connections and perfectly groomed moustaches,_ were in the courtyard, laughing loudly and congratulating each other already. Like they’d already won. 

Stiles sat on a stone bench, between two bushes of some kind of herb that smelled sharp and clean. He had a bagged lunch, a simple ham and cheese. It was all he had time to throw together before he had to book it to the train station. Stiles spared a short glance at the old guys, at their soft stomachs and smug grins. 

“She’s going to select you for the position.” 

Stiles flinched, turning sharply to see a gardner with his hair in a tight bun and tanned skin. He had a distinctive old burn scar that stretched up his neck and down his shoulder, his t-shirt spotted with sweat. He had an easy-going smile and confidence that didn’t make an ounce of sense. Stiles raised his eyebrows, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich. 

“Oh yeah?” Laughter from the group of men drifted over the wind. “Not sure about your prediction. They came with recommendations. I have half a sandwich in a paper bag.” 

The gardner tilted his head, a small lilt before he took a step closer. It was a casual step, uneven with a slight favoring of his right leg. 

“Mrs. Yukimura has no interest in people looking for a comfortable job. Our work,” he waved his hand, to the garders, the guards, the beautiful complex that spread across the hills, “is decidedly _uncomfortable.”_ The smile returned but it was slower. Just a little bit sleazy. “It’s not easy to find the right fit, the kind of person who _craves_ discomfort.” 

_That’s not a fucking gardner,_ Stiles knew with complete certainty. He wondered if the man could tell. 

“Well,” Stiles shifted his weight to the other side and noticed how the not-gardner had kept the space between them large enough so that Stiles couldn’t immediately reach for him. “If you’re right, I’ll buy you a drink or something.” 

The gardner bowed his head. 

 

“I’ll take an _or something_.” 

Stiles got the job. He never saw the not-gardner again. He never saw _that particular_ not-gardner again, though he kept his eyes peeled for a sleek smile like ice and a knowing gaze.

::::

Peter said it would last thirty minutes. 

_Fuck you I’m not sitting here for thirty minutes._ After five he could rotate his right wrist and move his fingers, grasping the mattress beneath him and pulling. Pull, release, pull, release— until he got his body rocking hard enough that he could roll off the bed. 

He hit the floor hard, the cold stone a harsh reality for his ribs and nose. He kept counting, kept breathing even as pain made his body throb. His right hand couldn’t get a good grip on the stone so he waited. 

He waited four-hundred and ninety-seven seconds. 

He kept working at it, until his right arm had mobility while the remaining limbs slowly caught up. His right hand dragged him across the stone. Sweat poured down his back as he dragged himself, inch by inch, to the fireplace for a poker, before changing course for the door.

Every breath was a myriad of motivations. Was it money? Was it a better job offer? Was Peter just throwing gasoline on nature’s entropy, tipping the scales into chaos? 

_I love you, sweetheart._

Lightning flashed and thunder rattled the windows. Stiles’s arms burned, his knees and ankles rubbed raw until splotches of blood were left behind on the stone. If it was money, wasn’t love more valuable? If it was job offer… wouldn’t Peter have brought Stiles with him? 

Stiles didn’t cry. His breath was like fire and his fingers were numb, but he was still the Captain of the Guard. He pushed himself onto his back, his toes just starting to twitch as he stared at his doorknob. He’d never be able to reach. 

His grip tightened on the fire poker. 

_This isn’t your fault._

Gripping the poker in his hands, the tendons in his neck drew tight as he thrust the poker at the knob. It clanged, and Stiles didn’t stop, just drew back and kept thrusting, hitting the brass every time. Sweat made his hands slick, and his back _ached_ from the strain, but Stiles didn’t stop, he just kept hitting and hitting until the metal was bent, twisted, and the knob fell free and rolled across the floor. 

Stiles sucked in air, his shirt soaked with sweat. 

_Don’t worry, my dear, this will only last for a half hour._

Stiles let the poker fall to the floor. He rolled himself back onto his stomach. _Did you think I’d just sit and wait,_ Stiles wondered, _did you think I’d give you any sort of favor or leeway?_

He pushed the door open. 

Stiles heard the snap, a thin wire drawing tight and severing just on the other side. He had time to think _shit, shit, fuck, shit_ before a series of explosions outside of the Yukimura walls made the ground shudder. 

::::

Never trust a Spymaster. 

Common fucking sense. Life advice 101. Bare basics. Whatever Stiles wanted to call it, those were the rules. Spymasters _at best_ were only loyal to their masters. Mostly were only loyal to themselves. 

Peter Hale was the Yukimura’s Spymaster and Stiles had never seen his real face. Or… if he had, it was so buried deep in the rotation of disguises that he had no hope of knowing which one was the _real Peter._

_They’re all the real me, darling,_ Peter had purred one evening during Stiles’s night patrol. That night he’d been in a black ceremonial dress, with long hair and makeup that smoothed any hints of masculinity off of his features. The Spymaster stereotype were that they were sleazebags with no morals. 

Peter was a chameleon, a creature without borders. Every detail was perfect, down to the polished nail and red lipstick. 

That was the first slip-up. Stiles _respected_ the dedication. It wasn’t just someone out for easy money. Peter was smart. He took a frightening level of pride in his work, just like Stiles. The night he was promoted to Captain, while the team celebrated with flowing whiskey and songs, Stiles had slipped out the back. 

Into the gardens. 

His ears rang from the loud accordion and off-key melodies when Peter stepped out of the shadows. 

“Congratulations.” Stiles slid over on the stone bench between the bushes of mint, parsley, and rhubarb. Peter paused and, for the first time since Stiles had started working for the Yukimuras, sat down next to him. “Your promotion is well-earned.” 

Stiles had been told that all night and it just wound his shoulders tight. But the moment the words left Peter’s mouth, slippery and oozing charm… Stiles felt his body relax. He smiled. 

“Thanks.” 

Peter didn’t have a strict schedule like Stiles. Some night patrols, he didn’t show up. Sometimes Stiles didn’t see him for months. Sometimes he saw him every night. It was never consistent and that was just the reality of knowing a Spymaster. Stiles stared openly at this new face, a strong nose, nice lips, eyes with just a hint of crows feet at the corners. Handsome. Just a little tired due to the hour. 

It wouldn’t be for another year that Stiles would learn that this was _Peter’s real face._

Being a Captain meant that he would not be patrolling alone anymore. He’d be managing the patrols. He was the leader, and leaders did not patrol alone at night. He already had scrapped a fourth of the previous Captain’s routines because they were inefficient, and he had started introducing new training drills to keep his team sharp. 

The sound of clinking glasses followed by another rally of cheers was muffled behind them, swallowed in the chilly spring air. 

His conversations with Peter were just as unique as the man. From mundane observations of outer towns, to the monotony of when he had spent too much time in the complex working for Noshiko and not her daughter Kira, to deeply intimate whispers. Little flickers of a real person under each elaborate disguise and charming jokes. 

Stiles shared things as well. Whispering to a shadow that followed him in his nightly rounds, it felt like a dream. It was easy to talk about his father, about the funds he’d send back home, about the thrill of chasing down enemies overseas, about how sometimes he wished he hadn’t been born so smart. 

_I would have been happier,_ Stiles had said right before a warm hand had grabbed his wrist and squeezed. 

_Any idiot can lobotomize themselves into sedentary delights,_ Peter’s voice was ragged in the dark, a hand outstretched from the night, _that is not who you are._

So many people in Stiles’s life, back home where he’d grown up, had wished for him to be that person. Someone who could smile and enjoy the simplicity. No one had ever treated it like… it was something of _value_ before. 

And so months later, when he should have been inside in the throes of celebration, he sat on a stone bench. Peter’s arm stretched along the stone behind Stiles. It was the closest Peter had been to him, aside from that one night with warm fingers pressing hard against Stiles’s pulse. Stiles slid a little closer. Peter’s hand fell on his shoulder. 

“I can still find you,” Peter’s voice tickled the air between them, “when you’re alone. If you want.” 

They could both pretend, in the dark, that they weren’t tingling from the contact. Stiles’s heart beat wildly in his chest and his breath strangled his voice into a thin, cracking line, but they both could easily deny it. 

“Yeah.” He nodded and he shuddered when Peter pulled him closer, until Stiles’s head rested on his shoulder. “Yeah, I’d like that.” 

::::

It was chaos. The bombs went off and Stiles had time to close his eyes and chastise himself before he started slapping his legs, chasing away the static-like numbness. People had already started shouting, he heard footsteps clambering across stone, and Stiles leaned out into the hallway. 

“Over here,” and the sound of the Captain shouting had his troops running. His right leg had some feeling in it when one of the younger foot-soldiers pulled Stiles up. “I’ve been poisoned. The bombs were triggered to go off when I opened the door. Get me to Ken and Noshiko.” 

Stiles wondered if he should be worried at how _clear_ his mind was, how easy it was to get orders and use two of his men as human crutches. Within seconds he organized systematic sweeps through the premises and the compound. 

“It was Peter,” Stiles said once he was alone with Ken and Noshiko, his legs still fighting for use as he slumped in one of their wooden kitchen chairs. “He drugged me. An injection,” he touched the bruise on his neck, “that was meant to paralyze and keep me indisposed for a half hour.” 

Ken was pale, shocked into silence. It was Noshiko who let out a harsh breath, her cheeks pink with anger as she held Stiles’s gaze. 

“What did he say? I want the _exact_ wording.” 

Stiles did his best to sit up straight, which was difficult when his lower body was still numb. 

“Don’t worry, my dear, this will only last for a half hour. It will hurt, but you’ll be fine.” Stiles didn’t flinch at thunder that rolled over the heavy rain. He cleared his throat. “That was it,” he lied, out of loyalty or the desire to keep some things private, Stiles wasn’t sure yet, “then he left.” 

His legs had _just_ started to work when four patrolmen came running into Ken and Noshiko’s kitchen. 

“We can’t locate Miss Yukimura.” 

Noshiko’s face darkened like she was summoning Death Itself. A headache bloomed behind Stiles’s eyes and he pushed out a long breath. _Shit._

::::

 _“I, Peter Hale, take Stiles Stilinski, to love and cherish from this day forward, for the rest of our natural lives together.”_

His voice had wavered, a few tears slipping down his cheeks. His hands had remained steady in Stiles’s in the small chapel in the Yukimura complex, Ken, Noshiko, and Kira their only witnesses in the middle of the night. Stiles had never thought about marriage before. It had fallen under simple pleasures that his mind just couldn’t… hold onto. Yet Peter had proven otherwise. It wasn’t restricted to simplicity. It was whatever they made of it. Stiles hadn’t been much better, still shaking and raw after his stammered vows. 

When they kissed, Peter had nipped his lower lip with a, _“I promise to never bore you, darling.”_

Kira’s room had been left in perfect order. Even the bed was made. At first glance, which the initial sweep had performed, it simply looked like she was somewhere else. In another wing, perhaps, or another late night in the labs. 

In this kind of a storm, the labs were out of the question, and the sweep came back that Kira was nowhere to be found. 

Stiles went to her room first, Ken and Noshiko with him. The sheets were ice cold, and while her wardrobe and drawers still had a great amount of clothes in them… they were not _full._ When he pulled open her desk drawers, there were sketches and schematics wrapped in a ribbon. 

All the jewelry was gone. Any petty cash was gone. Ken thumbed through the papers, the silk ribbon laid forgotten on the floor. Stiles vaguely heard him say, _this is half of her newest work,_ which begged the question _where was the other half?_

The cars had either been damaged in the explosion or the tires had been slashed and brakes cut. Two horses were missing. The other horses had either been set free from the stables or had been drugged with a higher dosage of whatever Peter had given Stiles. They were fine, but full recovery would take time. The road leading out of the compound had been completely blocked by the trees that had fallen down due to the bombs strapped to their trunks. The railway that ran their shipments to the merchant towns had also been strapped with charges, as well as the train cars. 

The gardens, distilleries, and laboratories had been untouched. 

“What is the worst case scenario?” 

Noshiko’s voice was a cracked whip in the dark. Stiles obeyed immediately. 

“The worst case scenario is that Peter has taken Kira by force and is planning on selling her to the highest bidder, along with her schematics for whiskey strains and cask construction.” Ken made a noise that would haunt Stiles for the rest of his life, guttural, animalistic. Like a deer bleeding out in the middle of winter. It sent the worst kind of chills down Stiles’s spine. “I don’t,” Stiles swallowed. “I don’t think that’s what this is. He didn’t leave a ransom note.” 

That helped Ken regain some color. Stiles knew they had to work fast. The storm didn’t matter, the bombs didn’t matter. Lost time mattered. Getting Kira Yukimura _back_ to her parents mattered. 

No note also meant that whatever it was that Peter planned he did _not_ want shared or scrutinized. Whether or not he and Kira worked together was also left to be a mystery. 

There were no signs of struggle. Worst case: Peter drugged Kira and dragged her with him. Again, it would be a huge handicap to maneuver such a chaotic exit with dead weight that, once awake or able to move, would be very angry dead weight. 

“I think they’re working together.” 

“You _think,”_ Noshiko snapped, “but you don’t _know.”_

_How could I have any fucking clue that any of this was going to happen,_ Stiles barely managed to choke down. He was aware of how Noshiko kept _staring_ at him, not blinking, not wavering for a second. Because Peter Hale had been their Spymaster for over a decade. His loyalty had been unquestioned, and suddenly he was blowing up their vehicles, drugging their horses, running off with their daughter, and…

And this same man was Stiles’s husband. The unspoken _how could you **not** know_ weighed on Stiles’s shoulders like bricks. 

“Do you still trust me as the Captain of your guard?” 

Stiles _hoped_ he didn’t sound as petulant as he felt. They were losing valuable time. Who _knows_ what insanity would happen if he was thrown in a holding cell while his guard struggled to dictate leadership. They’d _never_ find Peter. 

Maybe Peter had been counting on Noshiko taking Stiles out of the game. 

Stiles felt the thrill take hold of him, make him rock on his heels. He wanted to move. He wanted to run. 

He wanted to _hunt._

“I do.” Noshiko crossed her arms. “Get me my daughter back. If you can do that and bring Peter back alive, great. If not, fine. Kira is all that matters.” 

Stiles bowed his head. 

“Of course, Mrs. Yukimura.” 

::::

Beacon Hills was a four hour car ride on the winding, meandering road from the complex. By their train, it was an hour and a half if it was running at top speed with a lighter load. By horse, it could take anywhere from three to five hours depending on how efficient they were with their time. Taking account the harsh rain and storm, Kira could only hope her and Peter made it in one piece. 

Two seasons of preparation. Two seasons of late-night meetings. Two seasons of knowing that _this was it._

Peter had been direct with her as she’d wiped her eyes in the bath, taking his hand and pulling herself close. When her heat had stopped her from running away, she didn’t have more of a plan than _get out, find Beacon Hills, wait for the harvest festival, find Bobby._

Peter could get her to Beacon Hills. He could buy them time and throw false tracks in a million different directions. Their new plan was to find Bobby. Reunite them and see if he yearned for her in the same way. If not, they’d keep moving. Kira could live off her studies, as a normal person. No restraints necessary. 

Her clothes were water-logged and her fingers were numb. It had been two hours since the first series of explosions had gone off, severing off the main roads that would lead them to major trading posts, one of them being Beacon Hills. The blinders they’d strapped to their horses helped them from being spooked from the lightning, but the thunder still put a shudder in their pace. 

_He could say no._

It had been three heats spent in ice baths, after all. Three heats of no contact. Three _miserable_ heats while an invisible clock ticked above her at all times. A clock for marriage, heirs, and trade deals. Maybe she was selfish to cast it all away, especially to throw it away and taking the chance that… Bobby might want to take this insane risk with her. 

_He doesn’t even know what you look like._

She thought Peter would laugh at her… when she confessed that she only wanted him. This Alpha who’d never seen her, didn’t even know her full name or who she was or just what kind of bloodline she came from— but she knew him. He really wasn’t like the other Alphas. He wasn’t just a body to be used. Peppered between bouts of giggly sex… they unwrapped more details about each other. Memories. Stories. Half-smiles pressed against her shoulder as she’d lean back against him and describe her favorite gardens she’d visited around the world. 

_He might not want to take that plunge with you._

Peter spelled it out carefully. He would bring her to him, but it might not work out. At this point, if he’d moved on, Kira wouldn’t blame him. It would hurt, but not as much as subjecting herself to her marriage prospects. She’d rather be alone and destitute than her husband’s prisoner. 

If that’s how it turned out… so be it. 

By the time they made it to a muddy trail that made Peter straighten in his saddle, Kira only knew freezing rain and how it sliced across her skin like glass. 

“This way,” Peter shouted across the rain before he dug his heels into his horse’s side. 

Kira followed, and they made it to a secluded house. Small. Cozy. Peter tied his reins to a fence post before doing the same to Kira’s. Kira slid off her horse, her eyes wide as Peter ducked under the slanted roof, on a small porch.

 _This is his house._ Kira swallowed as Peter pounded on the door. When he pressed his ear to the wood, he frowned. The thunder wasn’t loud enough to drown out her panic. 

“He’s not _home?”_

Peter gripped her hand, tight enough that it didn’t matter that their skin was slick with water. His eyes flashed in the lightning. 

“There’s one other place we can try.” 

:::: 

The knife sliced through the sixth lemon of the night. The citrus stung Finstock’s hands, and back home he had cream that would help heal the raw, cracked skin… but at the same time— 

Why bother?

Lemon juice squeezed into a jar. It clung to Finstock’s fingers and wrist, and he took the other half and squeezed it into the strainer, catching the seeds and thick pulp. The Crossroads Tavern had no customers, as expected during a hurricane. Finstock knew no one would have blamed him for staying home, for not braving the mud slides, the lightning and expecting Erica and Isaac to do the same. 

He hated being home. 

At least at work he had a purpose, even if that meant squeezing lemons that made sharp slices of pain flare up on his palms every time juice slid over his skin. Erica and Isaac _had_ shown up, both of them water-logged and defiant, a mixture of anger and worry that had been growing on their faces for months. Erica didn’t say, _We knew you’d be idiotic enough to show up._ Isaac didn’t say, _We won’t let you be alone._

Instead, Erica said, “Hey, boss,” while Isaac flashed him a thin smile, “Think there will be a lunch rush?” 

That had been a few hours ago. Thunder rattled the windows. He stored cots in the back just in case they were ever caught in a storm and it looked like Erica and Isaac had packed bags, just like Finstock had. 

_Crazy kids,_ he thought while his heart ached in his chest. He boiled water and broke out the good whiskey, the Yukimura top shelf. Isaac opened the honey and Erica hopped up on the counter. Isaac got three glasses and prepared the hot toddies. Erica took in a deep breath.

“Finstock.” 

He sighed, his shoulders slack as he turned around, his back against the bar and his fingers pinching his nose.

“Yeah, I know.” 

He knew that their questions had been growing for the last six months, and that the moment he started losing weight because food just didn’t have the same appeal was when those questions grew into _concerns._ He’d do the same for them, he would have been right there with them. If Erica or Isaac had been showing half the signs he was, God… he would have been doing all the same routines. Asking if their family was all right, offering to pick up shifts, bringing along food and describing how long it took to prepare so they’d have to at least eat some of it. 

He would have done all that. 

There was only so much that Erica and Isaac could take before one of them would have to cut through the bullshit. It made sense that Erica would be the one to do it, her eyes stern while Isaac pushed the hot toddy into Finstock’s aching hands. 

“You can tell us anything,” Erica growled, adorable even when all Finstock wanted to do was insist he was fine. 

“We just,” long, thin fingers gently tugged Finstock’s sleeve and Isaac’s eyes welled with tears and _Christ,_ it was probably a last-ditch attempt from an Omega playing to an Alpha’s base instincts to provide and comfort but fuck if it wasn’t working. “We just want you to know, there’s nothing that scary, not if you have people with you.”

Erica squeezed his knee. 

“We’re _with you,_ Finstock.” 

Rain wept down the windows. Lightning streaked across an onyx sky with rolling storm clouds. 

“You wouldn’t believe me,” he smiled, knowing it wobbled despite his best efforts. 

Finstock was the weird Alpha who didn’t have time for fairytales or cliches. He was the Alpha who made people snicker at the farmers market and he was loud, crass, vulgar— he was not the kind of man who anyone would picture as some kind of concubine for an upper class Omega. 

He was a temporary reprieve. He was practice. He _knew that._

Of course he knew that. 

When Peter didn’t come, Finstock had thought maybe she was taking a break. It had been a year and a half of sex and… intimacy that made it hard for Finstock to keep leaving. It would be easier if she had pulled back, to just use him for what she needed, the way she had with other Alphas… but she held him close. She would whimper, _“I missed you so fucking much,”_ as a greeting. The first time it happened, he thought it was a slip of the tongue, but it kept happening. 

When Peter never arrived the next season, Finstock knew that Kira had found a husband. 

He knew, logically, that he had no right to think of her after the second season of no word from Peter. It was over, and he was helping an Omega who needed an Alpha. That was all. Lingering over inside jokes, stolen kisses across his nose and cheek, or sharing laughter after one debaucherous hour after another… it wasn’t his place. 

“Try me,” Erica crossed her arms. 

Finstock rolled his eyes, mostly to make a valiant attempt to stop his throat from being so damn tight and so he wouldn’t have to see Isaac’s tear-filled gaze. He downed his hot toddy in one go, wincing at the heat, yet savoring the smooth whiskey. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and took a breath when the doors slammed open. 

He whirled around and two soaked people all but fell into the bar, one of them hurrying to close the door behind them. Erica’s hissed, “you’ve _got_ to be kidding me,” was nearly covered up by the _crack_ of thunder. 

“Why don’t you two whip up something to eat,” Finstock turned to Isaac and Erica quickly, “I’m starving.” The words made Isaac relax, his smile wide at Finstock’s willingness to eat with them. Erica hesitated, not convinced. Finstock managed a small smile. “Let me take care of these guys, and I promise, I’ll tell you everything. You’ll think I’m a bigger idiot than you already do.” 

Erica snorted, though it did nothing to hide the shine in her eyes. 

“Good luck with that.”

She went with Isaac to the griddle as Finstock turned back around. The one man had his back to Finstock, staring out the windows as he wrung his coat out by the door. The other person was a young woman, her cheeks spotted pink and her clothes soaked through. Her breath shuddered out of her, her coat hung on the rack. Even from across the room, Finstock saw that she was shivering. 

“Hey,” he smiled as she stared at him, “you’re just in luck, we’ve made hot toddies. First one is on me.” 

She moved slowly, her first few steps short, until she moved quicker. She had long black hair that dripped water onto the wood floor and the closer she got, he heard just how her breath seemed to stick in her lungs. He swallowed and forgot about her companion at the window, prepping a fresh hot toddy and had the cup ready at the counter by the time she reached him. 

“Here,” he pushed the mug forward. “Please, it will warm you up.” He gave her a once over and shuddered to think what it was like in such wet clothes. “You know, we might have some spare clothes in the back. Drink this and I’ll go check—”

She pushed the cup to the side and pulled out the stool. Her hands shook as she pulled herself up, her knuckles white as she gripped the bar. She kept _looking_ at him and Finstock didn’t have time to think about the clothes in the back or Erica and Isaac’s whispers, not when the young woman, with pale skin and deep brown eyes made a broken sound in her throat right before her cold hands cupped Finstock’s face. She had one knee up on the bar and she pulled him forward to meet her halfway. 

Soft, _familiar_ lips pressed against his. 

It was as though a dam broke in his mind, an endless flood of emotions fighting for dominance. His hands shook and he didn’t hesitate pulling her close, the glasses rattling next to him as he struggled to keep his balance. Information overload was putting it lightly, the very real _feel_ of her under his hands, of her tongue in his mouth, of her smile against his lips and how, before she pulled away for breath she kissed the corner of his mouth and the tip of his nose. 

Something she’d done a thousand times, and yet it felt like the first. 

Behind him, Isaac’s soft, “holy shit,” was swallowed by Erica’s much louder, “What the fuck?” The storm raged outside, and Peter cleared his throat by the door, a curt, “Kira, I said _quick.”_ Finstock would address all those things, he would, but at that moment he only had time to _see_ Kira’s smile, widening with every shallow breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long… it’s been kinda a hectic end of year with a bunch of overdue things coming to an end. I got caught up in a lot of stuff, so sorry there was such a gap between updates. I hope you guys like it and it was worth the wait! Let me know what you think!
> 
> I’ll be active on Tumblr until the foreseeable future, though there are other ways to follow me, which you can see the breakdown[ **in this post.**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/post/180792646367/so-i-dont-know-whats-going-to-happen-with-tumblr)


	5. Alpha & Omega

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _My name is Kira Yukimura._
> 
> She brandished her name like the weapon it was, sharp, cold, and precise.

“I knew it.” Bobby kissed her between breathless glimpses at her face. “I knew it. You’re beautiful. You’re not fooling anyone.” 

Kira basked in the feeling of his smile pressed against her forehead and cheek. His fingers were rougher than she remembered, the skin broken in places and ways that were unfamiliar, but she didn’t have time to ask, not when his palm rested against her cheek, not when his eyes held her in a way no other gaze had attempted. 

Soon she’d have to force herself to pull back, to exit this blissful slice of time where it was just _them._ Soon, she’d have to tell Bobby the truth. About who she was. About what she left. About where she was going, and that he was invited to join her, but she’d have to leave either way. 

_Just a few more seconds,_ she thought as warm fingers brushed tears off her cheeks. Her knees creaked on the bar, her clothes stuck awkwardly to her skin, and the adrenalin had faded enough that her shivers weren’t just from Bobby’s lips on hers. _Just a little longer, please—_

“Kira.” Peter’s hand was firm around her shoulder. “Kira, you need to _focus.”_

Bobby’s employees looked like fish, wide eyed and gaping mouths. The young woman spoke first, her eyes flickering from Kira to Bobby. 

“Who the fuck are you?”

_“Erica,”_ the young man elbowed her, “oh my God.” 

Rain sluiced down the windows in heavy sheets before Peter covered them up, drawing the curtains tightly shut. Her heart hammered in her chest, each _th-thud_ a second lost, a narrowing window. She drew back, her hands sliding down Bobby’s arms. 

“My name is Kira Yukimura,” Bobby’s hands jerked under her palms as Kira sighed, too cold and too tired to be sheepish. “I’m leaving my home. I’d love it if you would come with me.” Kira did her best to remember how his face was slack with awed shock, his eyes… bright. So _bright_ she didn’t want to go back to how it was before. _Even if this is the last time I ever see him, it was worth it._ “I understand if you can’t. Or don’t want to.” She dropped her eyes to their hands, how his thumbs pressed against her knuckles. “Either way, I’m under no one’s eye.” 

_I am my own person,_ she thought as her hands slid free from his, cold washing over her skin. 

::::

_My name is Kira Yukimura._

She brandished her name like the weapon it was, sharp, cold, and precise. 

Peter was proud in a way he never imagined he’d feel. Vicious and overwhelming like a wolf watching its cub make its first kill. 

He sat down heavily on one of the stools, not at all gentlemanly or refined. He was tired. The adrenalin had time to fade and chest ached. Half was from exhaustion. A good Spymaster never had to run for their life. Spymasters melted into the shadows. Spymasters were about silence and secrecy.

Spymasters rarely, if ever, made their betrayals known via explosives. 

His rubbed the sting out of his legs as Kira hurried to give Bobby and his employees a rundown. _Yes,_ she was a Yukimura of Yukimura Whiskey. _Yes,_ she was the sole heir to the Yukimura Empire, and _yes,_ she was leaving it all behind. Finstock was the quietest Peter had ever seen him, the lines in his face deepening the more Kira spoke. When she stopped and all that was left was the storm raging outside, it wasn’t Finstock who spoke first. 

It was his coworker, Erica. 

“And you picked _him?”_ Erica shook her head. _“Bobby?”_

Kira tilted her chin up. 

“I haven’t met anyone like him.” 

Erica snorted. 

“Well, that’s true for anyone.” 

Isaac shoved Erica’s shoulder as more lightning flashed outside. Peter checked his watch as Bobby leaned forward. He’d gotten some spare clothes from the back, loose but warm on Kira. He brought both of her hands to his lips and blew on them, rubbing his palms down her arm to chase away the cold. 

“And you’re sure this is the best way for a clean break? From your family?” 

Kira deflated. 

“It’s the best compromise I could think of. Half of everything I’ve made.” 

Bobby frowned. 

“Compromise?”

“I wanted to take the blame,” all eyes turned to Peter as he picked dirt out from under his nails. “Make it seem like she was taken by force and imply that she’d been sold off to another rich family.” At the room’s collective horrified expressions, Peter smirked. “That would have been the cleanest break. A total misdirection.” 

“But,” Kira squeezed Finstock’s hands, “we came to a compromise.” Peter watched her slender fingers press against Finstock’s palms. “I can’t marry any of them. Each of the prospects just get worse and worse.”

Finstock bowed his head, his shoulders tense. 

“You’ll be running your whole life.” Kira opened her mouth, but Finstock kept going. “You will. Because if it were me, and I knew you were still out there after you’d gone missing with no clue of knowing how or why you left, I’d do everything I could to find you. And I don’t have the resources your parents do.” 

Rain rattled the windows. The candles flickered. The clock kept ticking down. 

Kira’s hands slid from Finstock’s as she sat back. 

“Then I’ll keep running.” Her face betrayed no worry, she was made of stone and warmth spread through Peter’s body. “I can’t be the Omega they… want me to be.” 

A roll of thunder made the glasses clink and ring against each other on the shelves, Peter sparing a look back at the bar before releasing his breath. Flashes of lightning crept through the curtains. Peter felt the seconds ticking down, he felt his husband’s shadow growing closer. If Stiles was anything, it was resourceful. _He might have even cut time off the estimated thirty minute paralysis._ Peter wouldn’t put it past him. 

“I’ll come with you.” Finstock’s two employees looked at him and he offered them a crooked smile. “How are we going to do this?” 

Thunder buzzed beneath their feet. Peter ignored the ringing glasses and leaned forward. 

“Kira and I will leave immediately, and once we get to a safe location, I’ll come back for you.” 

Finstock grinned. 

“Just like old times.” 

Peter stood and allowed Kira four seconds for a final kiss. She whispered something once they parted, words that Peter purposely let slip through his ears. Lightning flashed. A few glasses rattled. Peter twisted even though he knew it was already too late. Stiles stood atop the bar. 

Peter sucked in a breath, hoping he was fast enough to at least yell, but Stiles was faster. 

::::

Stiles’s scouting group thinned out until it was him and Jackson. Everyone else had split off with the order to return to the compound by dawn unless they found a solid lead, in that case they were to call the Yukimuras right away before moving forward. Stiles didn’t like Jackson, but he had to admit that he could get the job done under pressure. They tracked hoof prints that disappeared under the rain. 

After two hours, they came across a house on the edge of the woods, by backtrails that lead to one of the Yukimura private roads. He stopped his horse in time to see muddy boot tracks by the back door. Two pairs. Stiles dismounted, Jackson quick to follow. Stiles knelt by the prints. They were Kira’s and Peter’s size, the tracks left behind matched their boots. He made a curt gesture, and Jackson kicked in the door. 

It splintered, not reinforced with extra locks like every door at the Yukimura complex. Stiles entered, doing a quick sweep to see a discarded robe, cold coffee, and dishes laid out on a towel, washed that morning. The refrigerator was stocked with enough food for one, but the scent on the linens were distinctly masculine. Alpha. 

“They weren’t inside, but they knocked and waited.” Stiles whirled around to a pile of letters on a desk. “If they were looking for shelter Peter would have broken in, but they knocked and they _waited_ for someone they know to open the door. But they weren’t home, and so they moved on.” Stiles tore open a bill to get a name. Robert Finstock. He went through the letters until he got an expense report copy and receipt from a bar in Beacon Hills. “So they went _looking_ for him. Come on,” Stiles ground his teeth, “those tracks are _recent.”_

“What are you gonna do when we find him?” Jackson had the courtesy to wait until they were galloping down the beaten dirt road, having to venture into the grass when it became too muddy. “Are you going to kill him?”

Stiles’s jaw tightened. 

“Noshiko said alive or dead. I’ll do what I have to.” They made it to the bar quickly and Stiles got off his horse. “Wait out here. I’ll be back out, one way or another.” 

Stiles was a hunter. He didn’t need to know _why_ his prey moved the way it did, only where it was and where it wanted to go. He snuck into the back of the bar, picking the lock easily and holding his breath so he didn’t shudder at the change in temperature. Stiles slipped off his shoes and his sweater. He made most of his movements during thunder and stayed crouched behind the bar as the glasses rattled. He smelled the Alpha from the house on the dish towels. If he closed his eyes and concentrated, he could smell Kira’s lilac soap. 

Lightning flashed. 

Stiles waited for the thunder, but then he heard Peter’s voice. 

_“Kira and I will leave immediately, and once we get to a safe location, I’ll come back for you.”_

_Fuck that._ Stiles pulled himself up on top of the bar and grabbed the thickest glass he could find. He watched Kira kiss some stranger, some _Alpha_ with rough hands and a rougher face. He saw Peter smiling sweetly at them, and Stiles burned, bringing his arm back as Peter turned. 

He flung the glass and leapt off the bar. Peter brought his hand up and it shattered, the shards cutting his palm and face. Stiles moved quickly and delivered two strikes in quick succession against Peter’s chest. He had his knife out in the next moment and flung it at the space between Kira and the Alpha, another blade out and ready in his hand. 

“The next one goes in his shoulder.” Stiles gestured to the wide-eyed Alpha and held his free hand out, open palmed, to the Beta and Omega behind him. “Stay calm. This will all be over soon.” Peter wheezed on the ground, his lungs struggling to suck in more than the bare whispers of air. Stiles caught his gaze. “Don’t worry. It will hurt,” Stiles turned to Kira, “but you’ll be fine.” 

The knife still wobbled from where it’s blade lodged in the wall. 

“I’m not going back.” Kira spoke slowly and clearly, no sign of duress or injury. A small knot in Stiles’s chest loosened. Aside from her bruised lips and the goosebumps from the cold, Kira looked like herself. “Stiles,” Kira took a deep breath. “I won’t go back willingly. You’ll have to force me.” Kira tilted her chin up. “My mother doesn’t like her things damaged, and I promise, I’ll be damaged.” 

Peter’s arm flung out. 

“Stiles, we are—” 

Stiles knocked the air back out of his husband’s chest. The Beta and Omega flinched, and the Alpha spread his arm, blocking them with his body. He swayed, like he wanted to bring Kira closer, but Stiles’s knife kept him in his seat. 

“I don’t want to hear his version. If this all goes well, I’m sure I’ll be hearing all about it for hours.” Stiles breathed. “What was your plan?” She tells him. Stripped down to the bare basics, but she tells him. Stiles glances at the Alpha and that’s when it hit him. How Peter would know him, why they were all so _familiar_ with each other. Stiles deflated as Peter took in a full breath of air. “He’s your heat-Alpha. The one… that’s been better than the rest.” He glanced down at Peter. “I thought a rotation was protocol.” 

“You try bringing heaps of living garbage to your charge season after season.” Peter wheezed, his arm draped across his abdomen. “See how you like it.” 

Stiles sheathed his knife and pulled the other one out of the wall, tucking it away just as quickly. He helped Peter up off the floor and the Alpha sat back in his chair with a, _Jesus Christ, I thought I was going to have a heart attack._ The thunder no longer made the glasses shake. The rain was getting lighter. 

“Even if I let you go, they’d send me back out to find you, and I won’t have the luxury of searching places alone. We’d find you, and we’d take you back home.” Stiles did his best to lower his shoulders, to try and make himself seem less intimidating, but after his work with the knives and punching Peter’s breath away… it was impossible. Still, he had to _try._ “Or you can come now, both of you.” She visibly recoiled at the idea and Stiles hated feeling desperate, hated _pleading_ for anything. “I know you think you don’t have a choice… but you’re their _only_ daughter. That goes a long way with a parent. They’ll… they’ll do anything.” 

_Including razing countrysides, burning everything in their path until they find you,_ Stiles didn’t say as the rain lessened to a watery whisper. Stiles didn’t want to picture it before he absolutely had to, his team at his back, searching and destroying all for one brutal message: _Come Home._

Kira gently took the Alpha’s hands into hers. 

Looking at him, Stiles didn’t see anything extraordinary, and if Peter was to believed, Kira only had a taste for the extraordinary. He was older, had bags under his eyes and his hands were roughened with callouses and citrus burns from cutting lemons and limes. His teeth were oddly large and he didn’t hold himself with the Alpha confidence Stiles expected. 

Stiles watched the Alpha let her take his hands into hers, bring them into her grasp and lift them to her lips. Traditionally, acts of affection were initiated by the Alpha. 

The Alpha’s expression softened, his crooked smile like crushed velvet. Stiles thought, for a moment, that he was beginning to understand.

::::

A man waiting as backup for the slender maniac was sent on horseback to the Yukimura complex. Within two hours, two sleek black cars rolled down the street. A few people risked the sharp winds to watch the rarely seen _private_ vehicles pull up outside of the bar. 

“You and Bobby will be taking the first car, Stiles and I will be right behind you.” 

Finstock glanced at the second car where the lean psycho, Stiles, leaned against the hood.

“Are you sure you can’t ride with us?” Finstock leaned in closer when Peter raised his eyebrows. “It might be safer, Peter.” 

Kira giggled. Peter grinned and pinched Finstock’s cheek.

“You’re adorable. Get some rest during the ride.” 

Peter leaned down to kiss Kira’s cheek before went to the second car. Finstock couldn’t help but worry, because while Stiles was all smiles, Finstock wasn’t about to forget how that kid _flung_ that knife with absolute confidence. 

“Are you sure he’s going to be okay with that guy?” 

Finstock was dizzy, not used to being in a car without a blindfold and not used to _seeing_ how Kira’s smile really looked, how she shimmered even through exhaustion. The car rumbled to life and the drivers paid her no mind when she laughed. God, looking at her robbed him of breath, and he knew it was impolite to stare but… 

Her hands were soft and cold when they snuck under his shirt. He shivered and he stopped her from taking her hands away. 

“Don’t worry about Peter,” Kira smiled and Finstock was tempted to close his eyes, to try to rein in overwhelming waves of affection and delight. “They’re married.”

Finstock’s entire body went slack. 

“They’re _what?”_

Kira laughed and kissed the shock from his face, snuggling into his arms as they drove on. The wheels turned, toward the infamous Yukimura complex, and toward… uncertainty. Erica and Isaac didn’t trust Stiles or his belief that things would work out favorably. Finstock was still numb from being able to see Kira that any anxiety he had felt distant. Still, he had to wonder. 

He pressed his palms against her arms, moving up to her neck, her face, trying to give her some warmth. 

“How are you feeling?” 

_What if it isn’t fine like psycho-Stiles says?_ Finstock was a loud weirdo, but even he wouldn’t dare say that out loud. Kira wove her fingers through Finstock’s hair. 

“Better.” He brushed her hair back and his heart thudded because he could finally see how she’d turn her face against his hand, pressing her cheek to his palm. “Thanks for coming with me.” 

He scoffed and pulled her close. 

::::

The smell of wet dirt against still-burning cinders made the small hairs on the back of Peter’s neck stand up. His ribs ached, his diaphragm periodically seizing, bracing itself for another sudden impact. He held himself up high for Kira and Finstock as they exited the vehicles, Ken pulling his daughter into an embrace immediately while Noshiko sized Finstock up before ushering them inside.

The moment the door closed Peter slouched, making his way over to the gardens. He sat on the bench by the mint and Stiles sat next to him.

“Sorry.” 

Stiles offered the apology with brown eyes that were much too soft for a man in his position. Peter kissed his cheek.

“Don’t be, darling. You did your job beautifully.” Peter offered Stiles a crooked smile. “As did I.” 

The damage from the explosives were limited to the outer walls and stables, not the gardens. Workers were already clearing the rubble. The Yukimura name did not crumble in the face of a storm, whether it be brought by nature or their own daughter. Life moved on. Stiles slid his fingers under Peter’s shirt, gently brushing over the places he’d struck. 

“What do you think will happen?”

Peter slid his arm around his husband, and it eased the ache brought on by looming uncertainty. 

“I think you made a good point.” Kira was an only child, and just because she was an Omega didn’t strip her of that title. Many parents would bend over backwards for their children. However, Stiles did not see the reports Peter had gathered on potential husbands, he hadn’t heard Noshiko’s different strategy for different candidates. “If the worst happens,” Peter breathed deep, his lips lost against Stiles’s temple, “then I won’t hesitate to do whatever Kira asks of me.” 

_Only this time, we will not slow down or turn back,_ Peter didn’t include. His husband hummed. 

“Next time,” Stiles pressed close, “I’ll make sure you pull it off perfectly.” 

Really, what was a clearer _I love you_ than that?

::::

The best time to gather data was before dawn. Drawing by candlelight was nothing new to Kira, monitoring the growth of mint, barley, and lilac. Morning dew soaked through her pajama pants as she gently peered under the leaves, smiling at the health reflected back at her. She sketched until the candle burned out. 

Wood groaned beneath her feet as she slipped back inside the house. She set the candelabra down on the table and had stepped out of her pants by the time she reached the bedroom. 

“Mm.” Bobby cracked his eyes open, the sheets falling down his body as he sat up. “G’morning. Is it morning?” 

Kira crawled into bed, sighing at the feel of skin-on-skin. 

“It is.” He diverted her momentum, tugging her into a lazy kiss that still sent syrupy affection sliding down her spine. “I tried,” Kira’s breath hitched when his teeth lightly bit her lower lip, “I tried to be quiet.” 

“You don’t need to be.” 

It was his day off, and Kira liked to covet their time, to steal him away. Still, Kira knew that she should let him rest, to really let him savor being able to sleep in. Not that Bobby seemed to particularly care about sleeping at that moment, his tongue chasing the lingering taste of the early morning and lilac until all that was left was _Kira._

Tomorrow she’d need to be back at the complex to oversee a new cask construction. Then she’d have Peter help her pile the rest of her things in the back of a car, one last trip before she was finally relocated. By next week she’d be completely moved in. 

Bobby’s hands were gentle, slow, and every kiss was an affirmation of how much _time_ they now had. 

“I love you,” he whispered with a crooked smile. 

Sunlight crept through the windows and warmed Kira’s back. The sunbeams lit up his eyes. Sometimes she’d still catch him staring, like he couldn’t believe she was real. Kira knew she’d get lost in his eyes, wondering how she ever could believe he’d been so expressive without them. 

With the morning at her back and her love beneath her, Kira finally knew how the future tasted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it’s been so long on this story, guys. I have to admit, I kinda lost steam on it, though I had a vague idea of how I wanted to wrap it up. Anyway, I hope it’s an okay conclusion. I think I’m going to chill on ABO stuff for a while, just until I can get excited about it again, I think for right now I’m a little burned out. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this was decent. Thanks!
> 
> I’ll still be active on tumblr for the time being, but there are other ways to find me. [**Here**](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about) you can see a little breakdown of other places to find me and the other things I do in relation to these fics (journals/behind the scenes, playlists, head canons). [**So click on over** ](http://mia6363.tumblr.com/about)to get the full rundown!


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